Soft-Edged Storm

I can feel it coming before it comes—

that weather inside my ribs,

the low roll of thunder rehearsing

behind my teeth.

﹀︿

You ask a simple thing—

“Are you okay?”—

and my brain goes bright,

like a match too eager.

﹀︿

I grip the edge of the table.

count the nicks in the wood

the way other people count breaths.

One, two, three—

a small prayer in splinters.

﹀︿

Outside, wind pushes the trees around

like it’s trying to rearrange their thoughts.

Inside, I nod, I smile,

I say the safe version: “Just tired.”

(It’s always “just tired.”)

﹀︿

My hands do what they can.

They rinse the cups,

they fold the towels into soft squares,

They pet the dog behind the ear

until his eyelids fall like curtains.

﹀︿

Meanwhile my heart is a drumline,

messy, loud, not in sync—

boom, boom—then a pause

That scares me worse than noise.

﹀︿

I want to slam a door,

But instead I close it slowly,

So the latch lands gentle,

So nobody flinches.

﹀︿

There’s a storm in me, yes,

But I keep rounding off the edges,

as if tenderness is a kind of shelter

and not… whatever else it is.