Tuesday, June 2, 2020

Forest fires are both necessary and dangerous.

I have this swirling of emotions in the pit of my stomach.
It rises up through my lungs to my throat and out my eyes.
I used to think if I let enough of the tears fall it would eventually put out the flames.

I was always wrong though.

Because I thought I was a forest fire.
Encouraging regrowth.
Removing the weak.
Allowing more sunlight.

...All while being contained.

Forest fires are synonymous with disaster.
And although at times I can be an absolute mess of a disaster
I cannot be contained, controlled, or conned.

I realized this when I tasted that my tears were made from salt water.
I realized this as I rode through my waves of grief and thrill within moments of each other.
The undertow brings me to my depths where I can hold my breath for just long enough.
It's the storm in me.

What do you call a storm who didn’t know she had permission to rage?
Do you call her lost or do you call her home?

Remember that I want to be loved as deep as the ocean, but remember that I am like the ocean.
I can slip through your fingers, but manage to hold up an army of ships.
Kiss me, hold me, love me, but tell me if you're not up for it.
I'll only have you if you're sweeter than my solitude.
-Warsan Shire.

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