How to Hold Lightning

The storm said, "It's okay to be loud."

Said, "Even thunder has a pulse that trembles."

I said, "But what if I break the sky?"

The storm laughed, shook its clouds, spilled rain like an apology,

said,"Darling, what do you think lightning is for?"

I want to learn how to love without flinching

to build a home in the spaces between lightning strikes.

But my heart has this habit of running barefoot through fields of burnt-out stars,

asking if it’s too late to make a wish.

The ocean said, "Swallow salt. It helps you float."

Said, "Some of us are made of tides that can’t stay still. "

And isn't that the truth?

How I flood every time the sun leans in close,

how my ribcage is a shoreline scattered with shipwrecks and sea glass.

Once, I met a girl who called herself a wildfire

eyes like kerosene,

hands that flickered with wanting.

She kissed like she was trying to burn the silence,

and for a moment, my shadows forgot how to breathe.

The mirror said, "You’re still here."

Said, "Even shattered glass can hold the light."

So I gather my pieces, polish them tenderly,

build a mosaic out of mornings I survived.

Maybe that’s what it means to be brave

to glow despite the cracks,

to cup the lightning in your palms and say, "I am not afraid to be seen."