Violent Forecast

I built my walls like storm shelters,

steel-bolted ribs sunk deep beneath the dirt,

warning sirens humming through my chest

every time your name rolled across the sky.

But you always arrived like a tornado does:

beautiful from far away,

deadly once it touches down.

You tore through me effortlessly.

Splintered doors from their hinges,

ripped the roof from every guarded thought,

left my heart spinning in violent circles

like debris caught inside your funnel.

And somehow I still stood there in awe,

watching destruction wear your face

like something holy.

When I was with you,

I lived in the eye of the storm,

that haunting calm where everything feels safe enough to forget what surrounds it.

No screaming winds.

No shattered glass.

Just silence soft enough

to mistake for love.

But storms never stay still.

You drifted onward,

leaving me beneath a blackened sky

to pick through the wreckage alone.

Carrying broken pieces of myself

like families searching foundations

after the tornado warning ends.

And you walked away so easily,

as if my ruin was just weather,

temporary, forgettable,

another town flattened on your way elsewhere.

Now every warning sign feels like you.

Every dark cloud carries your shape.

And I still catch myself rebuilding walls

I know you will only tear through again.