The Thunder I Know Too Well
Everyone asks me why I hate the storm,
They praise the rain, say the thunderâs warm.
They love the chill, the skyâs gray tune,
The way the world holds its breath till June.
And I do love rain, how it softens the ground,
How it hums like a promise, a gentle sound.
But the lightning snaps and my breath goes thin,
Because Iâve heard that sound before. Inside. Within.
Itâs not the sky that makes me freeze,
Itâs the way my heart still remembers these:
Doors slammed hard with a shaking frame,
Voices sharpened by anger and blame.
Eyes lit wild with a dangerous glow,
Words thrown like knives, fast, brutal, low.
I learned to tiptoe, learned to be small,
Learned silence was safer than saying it all.
I memorized floors by the creak of the wood,
Knew when to breathe, when I probably should.
Screaming bounced off the walls at night,
Thunder without clouds, no warning light.
Bruises you canât see, but they live in the mind,
Fear taught early, cruel and unkind.
Love came tangled with hurt and control,
And survival carved scars into my soul.
So when the sky cracks open, loud and wild,
Iâm not afraid of rain. No, Iâm afraid like a child.
Afraid of the shaking, the loss of control,
Afraid of that rage with no visible soul.
How do I tell them itâs not just a sound?
That storms dig graves where my sleep should be found.
That nightmares still drag me out of my bed,
Replay what was done, repeat what was said.
They ask me why I donât sleep when it rains,
Why my hands still tremble, why it hurts in my veins.
How do I say the storm never stayed outside,
It lived in my home. It learned my stride.
So no, I donât hate the rain on my skin.
I hate what the thunder wakes up within.
Because some of us learned, before we could run,
That love can be loud....and safety, none
