Speak

Storm

He tells you he finds every bit of you beautiful, that every corner of your body is a temple unexplored. He tells you how beautiful the liquid remains of your dreams are, as they roll insignificantly down your cheeks; adding another droplet to the ocean of salt you've already wept. He tells you he finds your soul dark enough to pierce right through his blood red heart, and he tells you he loves you not because you're you, but because you hold the power to destroy him. Not because you were a diamond, but because you were a tornado with the power to break his wings. Not because you were a rainbow, but because you were a thunder hot enough to light him on fire.

And you did. You broke his wings, shredded it into pieces, lit his body on fire, burnt it to the ground, and blew up the ashes that were left in the storm that followed the hurricane which will go on to be named after you.

His mistake was craving the taste of a storm like you, a storm that knew no bounds for it was far too blind in its own misery. With its scars and stories of past forgotten, it continued to rage in the pitch black of night, bringing everything in its way to the ground – never for once being able to see the love radiating from him. It never realized that even the fiercest of storms were beautiful in their own way, that even the darkest of clouds rolled with their own grace.

But I guess that's why you should never love a storm, it never realizes what its true beauty is – only destroys those who try to show them. Just like people like you and I, who could never love themselves, but only destroy those who try to explain.

His mistake was loving me.

Mine was being unable to love me.