rain

The rain, it whispers my name under its breath. 

It sends shivers up my spine and makes it all too real.

I sometimes forget the pain exists 

and sometimes I even think that it's my imagination, 

like the polka-dot bear that danced on my fifth birthday 

and sang so loudly he was hoarse at the end.

But the rain. Dirty and offensive, sticking onto my fair skin 

and when I try to scrape it off, I scrape pieces of my soul. 

I walk in agony, not because of disease. 

My heart black, my lungs shriveled. 

No, not because of disease. 

Blaming disease would be too easy.

Piercing the rain with my saucer-shaped, dagger eyes, 

searching for what might had been. 

My back, 

my arms, 

my legs, reminders 

I was once human for just a split second. 

Remember?

T'was the first time I felt your lips on mine 

just before the rains came and the wine possessed me, 

stomping me to the ground, tearing me limb from limb.