my mother calls me a hurricane
but i think i am less storm and more tsunami.
too quickly, my anger dissipates into sadness:
i can never hold onto rage for very long.
see, the world taught me tears but never fury,
fear but never its cause—
some days i feel more freak accident than natural disaster.
i am too proud to admit i am wrong
but too scared to stand my ground.
i have problems with authority figures.
i cry when faced with opposition
but maybe these tears are a defense mechanism.
maybe these tears are all natural selection gave me to express my emotions.
i am the tidal wave
but more than that i am the land and the cities and the people
washed over by the downpour.
i learn to watch for warning signs like
my body shaking from an earthquake like
fluctuations of heartbeat at sea level like
the roar of the ocean in the pit of my stomach like
the way water recedes from coast,
exposing a broken mouth
and lungs that gasp for air
the world doesn’t teach people warning signs
for a girl on the verge of eruption.
there is no instruction manual on how to build a structure out of flesh and bone
strong enough to withstand freak storms and flash floods.
i have been told to be both power and submission:
child wearing vulnerability, naked soul, drowning in seismic sea waves
never remembering to exhale.
soft to touch, easier to fold,
must be evolution, like our tears.
i know boys who weep.