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,
and love.
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.
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