Maybe this heart of mine is no more broken than Mother Earth’s.
Maybe I should not be ashamed to crumble, because She is no more immune to the raging than I am.
I am not the only one who cannot hold it all inside,
even She breaks when the rain becomes too heavy to hold.
The aching is a feeling only She proves to fully understand,
and the storm becomes me no less than it becomes Her.
So maybe I have shattered time and time again, but if what I’ve become is just a complex of what I’ve felt,
am I really any different from Her?
Maybe storms have always been Her way of telling us She feels everything in it’s entirety too.
You are not alone in the burning, She tells me.
And how comforting it is to know that the raging outside of me can compare to the raging inside of me.
So death may have Her hands around my throat,
but I am not the only one war ravaged.