I could feel the thunder in my hair extensions.
Nothing makes sense for me,
I was just always that kind of girl,
the impossible kind who finds unthinkable and inconceivable experiences,
just lives them,
so it was not a surprise when a sound shook my body,
but began at inanimate strands of hair.
I wasn’t supposed to be there,
or any night, for that matter.
The night’s sky is not for the eyes of women,
though the moon has always been our mother.
She is stalked by demonic danger,
that demands we are locked behind doors, that are smeared with sacrificial blood,
so we never get to go home,
and meet under the watchful eye of mother dearest.
I was raised to be a reader.
Stories, plays, street signs, situations.
My eyes are the quickest draw in the west,
racing to keep up with my eager mind,
and, God, I’m so sharp,
truly, I’ve never met a match for me, intellectually,
but my arms and legs let me down,
so my eyes search for safe spots, that are well lit,
crowds of women that could shield me,
a policeman that won’t stumble into the stereotypes and be a worse fate than what’s outside.
I took a walk, that night, you see.
I thought “I am free.” and off I went,
ignoring the threatening glare of the dark and the winding, never ending path it created,
the way that the night bullied the street lights out of its turf and left me all alone,
and then he appears,
the one I was warned about,
the one who is allegedly an exception to his kind (though it is always a different one every time).
I can hear his every move,
because I’m not listening to loud music.
I can see him completely,
because we are both bathed in yellow light, that isn’t brave enough to save me.
He calls out, and it is thunder, running down my hair extensions.
He grabs me, and it is thunder, running down my hair extensions.
He touches me, and it is thunder, running down my hair extensions, because if I hear thunder, then the lightning can’t be far,
and if the lightning comes, then maybe it will strike him,
and maybe if it strikes him,
I can make it out intact,
because I did everything I’m supposed to do,
I just tried to walk two minutes to the shop and now he won’t stop,
but I took every step that everyone told me to take,
and it’s still a mistake,
because he did it anyway,
and it doesn’t matter who I tell,
because it will still be my fault.
I can hear thunder,
inside of my head,
because hearing his heavy breathing hurts too much,
and I try to pretend that I am dead,
because maybe he won’t be into that,
maybe necrophilia is a bridge too far,
maybe a murder charge will awaken some kind of fear in him.
It never would have.
I hear thunder,
because the lightning will come,
if I ask it politely,
the lightning will come,
if I wish hard enough,
and hope deeply enough.
The lightning will come,
and the street will be blinding and blessed.