My youngest sister is the droplets you feel before a rainstorm.
The ones that feel like little pieces of snow landing on your neck.
The ones that are gentle and kind.
Then they become stinging and unforgiving.
They drive you inside and turn into a full on flood.
My middle sister
is a hurricane,
raging and
thrashing,
swirling and
whirling.
But there’s always the eye of the storm,
that little safe space where I remember
when she was younger,
that’s her spirit ,
her whole heart,
her boisterous laughter,
her spark,
her light that is always,
always drowned in the night.
I am the storm that cleaves the sky.
I will scream and shout
and
rage until they hear me.
I light up the sky to the beat of the
music that booms from my house.
I use my voice to make the floor
thunder like the sky.
I am not my daddy’s little girl.
I am my fathers daughter.
And I have all his rage.
My sisters and I,
we all swirl and mix,
shaking the earth with our storms,
lashing out with our fathers fire
and our mothers cold ice,
but we all follow the
steady beat of our heart,
the beat of the songs we sing,
the games we play,
the steps we walk,
the way our feet hit the ground,
making storms,
causing earthquakes,
moving the sky.
Day after day,
week after week
you will feel our storms and it will continue on.
Girl to Wife to Mother to Daughter,
we will not be your lambs to slaughter.
And when that cycle comes to an end ,
you will feel our storms again.