I thought you were the rain, but no,
I was the rain. I meant to drown you. I
wanted you to be inescapably drenched-
your trachea clogged, your mouth an 'O'
of desperate gasping, your lips parted
and blue. If I wasn't enough to die for,
I wouldn't ever be enough.
Your disappearances were noted with
darkened clouds- thick and heavy, tight
with waiting. You always returned with a
thunderclap, moving me to a downpour of
deprived longing. I was a flood and you
were a desert begging to be a sea. But
flood-waters river into oceans, and
deserts are meant to be dry.
It was selfish of me to treat you
like a boat- I liked you better capsized.
But in your shipwrecked depravity, you
sought sunshine and calm, so I took pity
on your seasick state and blew over lands
thirsty for my brand of nourishment. Then
when, with saltcaked skin and cracked lips,
you ached for my answer to dehydration, I
was busy raining over the lush.
In your time of drought, I placed the
blame in your ribcage like a bird flapping
frantically until, with broken wings, it
sat defeated in your breast. Haterot spread
out from the carcass for two years, until
it seethed through your pores, escaping
only to be cleansed by my rainwater.
It was a havoc strewn salvation, as those
puddles evaporated into acid clouds that
wrapped around me like a noose hanging
from the never clear sky- a reminder of
my gloom, my guilt...
I wasn't the rain, either;
I was a storm.