She was a lightning bolt.
A lightning bolt that struck me,
electrified me, shocked me, and
blew me out of my shoes.
The electrification was sustained,
prolonged, constant and scorching.
It coursed through me, singeing my
surroundings, leaving a burned patch.
While others tried to walk between
the rain drops and hide from the storm,
I held out and was greeted with a flash
of sizzling fire from the sky.
It was dizzying, left my ears ringing,
scarred my brain and my soul,
the tattoo of a broken heart
scored on my face.
She was a lightning bolt,
furious, sharp, fast, intense,
but a spark of wonder, joy,
A lightning bolt can’t be bottled,
fooled, coddled, or tamed.
It strikes where it wants and
only leaves charred cinders when it vanishes.
She was lightning and I was struck,
more than once, a lightning junkie,
always wanting more despite the
electrified pain, the heart stopping.
So I sit, singed, crispy around the
edges, hoping lightning will strike
again and that this time,
this time I won’t get burned.