Tornadoes never make good shelters - but he doesn't know that. So he tries to find refuge inside of me, he tries to build a home out of my bitten bones with a porch swing made of whatever left-over love someone forgot to take back. He wants me to be a safe place to hide away from a troublesome summer, but I am not made of light, and I am not made of beginnings - everything about me is a never-ending ending. Tornadoes never make good shelters - and he will soon know that.
To all the men who didn’t see me for what I was








