There was another thunderstorm in my living room.
My father’s eyes were dark rainclouds,
and my mother spoke lightning, pure electricity.
I stepped outside through the backdoor
hoping to catch a bit of sunlight and slip it in my pocket.
Sunshine was hard to come by these days.
Splashing my rain boots through the echoes in my head,
I sat underneath the apple tree
and waited for the calm.
My bedroom was the color of bubblegum,
and my cheeks were cherry red.
She was sitting in a pink tutu, all smiles with her too chubby cheeks.
In her hands still sticky with leftover raspberry jam,
was my mermaid doll named Coral Marie,
her skin oranger than Kraft mac and cheese.
And next to a pair of safety scissors was a pile of hair like spun silver.
I sat underneath the apple tree
and waited for the calm.
In sixth grade my best friend had amber jewels for eyes
and a mouth made of razor blades,
slashing my skin with every word.
I sat next to her in science class and learned the simple rules of physics:
what goes up up up into the air must come down.
I was high in the sky, tethered to her and spinning around.
But she cut me loose with a glint in her eye and I fell down down down.
I sat underneath the apple tree
and waited for the calm.
Seventeen is more of a feeling than an age,
full of smiles and insecurities, laughter and decisions made too soon.
They say they’ll always be by your side
but disappear when you speak words made of stone.
So maybe that’s why we pretend to be someone we’re not,
scared of what might happen if we break open our skin
and show the colors beneath.
I’m sitting beneath the apple tree
still waiting for the calm.