There are some things that words can’t express
Some unseen knowledge that words can’t possess
But we, we push them closer every day
Metaphors and similes, it’s all a little crazy; well…
I fear your thunderstorm eyes
Flashing with the ferocity of lightning and roaring with the roll of thunder
I hate, your poker-face. So void of emotion, compassion, care, concern, recognition of wrong
Nothing scares me so much as, the mountains that shape your forehead as your eyebrows turn in to release the fury within, that statue-chiseled chin while you grit your teeth in pure rage.
Yeah, your anger is like all the bad in the world manifested to human form, like war and hatred and storms and aging and death, all wrapped into an overwhelming package before me.
Your eyes, oh your eyes, they show a hatred I’ve never fathomed, like, a spite from the past of black-white, German-Jew, but it’s just me—and you.
And in the moment of quiet like the eye of a hurricane I see the formidable fury console you and control you and I—I brace myself.
Me, I must be special because—I can turn a balmy summer day into the most ferocious blizzard when I piss you off.
What was it this time? Mother, Mama, Mom. Madre, Anya, Moeder, Mor Mare, Mari, Nai, Daya, Motina, Reny, Emak. What changed you from the symbol of love and affection to an enemy, what transformed my home of safety to a battlefield, this time?
I regret the words once I speak them, because—follows a torrential downpour and the many-miled per hour winds of a storm that is unworldly.
You, you have ahold of my hair like your reaching for some resolution there, some help perhaps? And you’re pulling, until my neck bends with the fragility of a tree under your winds and I’m staring into those deep dark pits that were once your eyes—where’d you go? Can you tell me, because I don’t know.
Call me a storm-chaser, because I pursue this scene with my provocations and my remarks, I know just what buttons to push to make you crazy, isn’t that what teens do? But this is different because I’m me and you’re you; and like any storm-chaser I’m expecting a day when my risk will yield no reward, if that’s what this is, but rather an end.
You find a startling satisfaction in the caging of a spirit and the countering of a body, yeah you trap me, forcing confrontation with the mildest obsession even I, storm-chaser-extraordinaire, cannot manage. And maybe that’s why when push comes to shove, today—I’ll submit to my own downfall before I speak, me and confrontation, we don’t get along easy, not at all.
So answer me now, have I made you proud? I don’t stand up for myself and here I am, the product of a tormented existence, I am quiet and submissive, burying your wrath within me, a past I don’t take lightly.
Tell me, can you see the resemblance? You and I, we’re getting so much closer now the way we look and act and I just wonder if you see it there, in my eyes, the shift from serene to chaos—when you touch me, pretend to love me; I’m sick of the lies—
The storm is within me, you put it there. And I’m scared. Not the physical fear I’ve come to know, the waiting out the storm kind of scared but—the ‘what if it’s in me,’ the ‘does it spread so simply,’ the ‘you’re stable now but did I inherit the rage’ kind of scared.
Me, I’m a storm-chaser that survived the darkest storm, I learned to dance in the rain and see the blue in the darkest greys, yeah I managed to find every cloud’s silver lining.
But now we’re fake, and I just can’t take—the pretend, the I love you and this is what it is and it’s okay, that never really happened anyway.
I’m scared. When I look in the mirror and see the intricacies in my face that resemble yours, the features that I inherited from you as if you owed me something, but I didn’t ask for this, it’s a curse; not a blessing.
And I’m scared, that you gave me this too. This storm-fed anger, but I’m a storm-chaser, maybe it’s what I do. Maybe I’m meant to be just like you.
I’m scared of my eyes—my thunderstorm eyes.