Ridge's Lit and Art Zine

The Devil's Quill

A Letter To A Hurricane

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Dear Category Four,

When your tide first struck the shore I ran to you. I ran to you in the delusion that the wind storm violently shaking my body would be better than this deafening silence I hear in my head. But what I didn’t realize was you didn’t cause the debris that was hurled at me, it was just that your power was able to break the lock on my closet and let the skeletons out. And it wasn’t until a femur hit me in the backside of my head that I realized the only difference between me and you was that you knew you were a hurricane and I thought I was a light house.

We rampaged through our path of destruction every night. What we called adventures were really metaphoric suicide missions. Because I thought it was better to love someone who I was certain could not love me back than take a chance on someone who could let me down. We balanced on the knife of wanting to feel and wanting to be numb, but we used our bodies as canvases for both. Filling our lungs with smoke because it was better to breathe poison than reality. And in those moments, we could craft our realities. If we wanted to feel something other than pain we could, if we wanted to take one step closer to our graves we could. We all crave control because when control is stripped from us that is the one scar that will never surrender to fade from your skin.

Fighting, kissing, hating, loving, rejecting: it became impossible to tell the difference because there was no difference. When I was kissing you, I was also hating you. When I was fighting with you, I was trying to protect you. When I was surrounding my heart with barbed wire, and yours with rejection, it was because I refused to envision a day with out your chaos. But maybe that was the issue all along. Maybe I did love you. Maybe I loved you because you were dangerous and I wanted death. Or maybe I loved you because you were real and I wanted life. Maybe I loved you because when I was with you everyone thought I was a hurricane too. And no one in their right mind runs towards a hurricane.

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Ridge's Lit and Art Zine
A Letter To A Hurricane