The rain is coming back. I can hear the thunder. It's in time with the beat of my heart.
Somewhat depressed. Hopefully a good thunderstorm will do that whole turning of the frown thing.
I have to organize my bookshelf--get everything in order. Today might be the day I'm finally killed by a serial murderer, and when the news crews film my room (semi-monotone female newscaster talking about how much of a beloved and talented girl I was at only 16) I want America to see my awesome book collection in it's full glory.
Lightening comes in bold flashes--dancing bodies against Dumbo-gray skies. I hope it pours.
I just reread his entry--mygod, how fucking teen angst can someone cram into one blog? Christ. I'm not that dark.
First rain drops are falling. A heavy drizzle. The thunder's getting closer, and now it's only a matter of time.
Fucking bumblebee--go back under the shed. You're going to drown if you stay out in the open. Please Mr. Bumblebee? Please?
The drops are heavy enough now that they ting against the metal of my air conditioner.
Thunder boom--the floor of my room just shook. I could feel it in my bones. Intimate. The storm is my lover.
It's really pouring now--it's got this town by it's neck. It's suffocating it. Drowning it. And I'm front and center to it all.
But just like any good lover, it'll be gone by morning. Wandering to wherethefuckever for it's next stand. To caress someone with rain, make them tremble with thunder, penetrate them with lightening. So perfect, so good, so wet.
...Shit, where the fuck is my Plan-B? Allergic to latex my ass.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment