She Holds The Storm

She carries the tempest behind her ribs-
a sky rent open at the seams,
where thunder rolls like distant artillery
and lightning unspools its white-hot grief.

In the hollow of her chest, rain drums
against glass walls,
each drop a name she cannot speak,
a memory she damns with every breath.
The air quivers with static-
hair-raising, nerve-shredding-
as if her heart might snap the wires
and set the whole night alight.

Her thoughts swirl like ink in water,
black tendrils coiling around hope,
pulling it down into unseen depths.
She tastes iron on her tongue-
blood, or the foretaste of tears unshed-
and wonders if the next storm could drown her.

Beneath her calm surface, hailstones of regret
pummel her resolve,
scar the smooth veneer she knows the world.
Winds of self-doubt tear at her coat of control,
pushing her toward the brink
where collapse feels both inevitable and overdue.

Yet she holds fast-
fingers curled around the lightning's throat,
quieting the roar with a single, strained exhale.
Her eyes, two pale moons caught in eclipse,
watch over someone else's darkness
while her own rages in secret.