I dream of tornadoes

I dream of tornadoes.

Tornadoes outside of my house
Tornadoes outside of my bedroom.
I'm always running.

I dream of destroying everything.

The fear crawls on my skin
prickles on my neck and in my chest.
Panic. Alarm.

It catches you.
It always catches you.

I dream I am the tornado.

The power scares me.
I don't know how to destroy everything.
It feels like burning a book you wrote,
or a masterpiece you painted.
You can't get it back.
It's absolute.
Ashes.

It will all be gone.

I will be gone.

I don't know how to die yet.

It's not enough
to ask me
and expect
I'll know what to say
to make you feel like someone special.

What do I know of your insides?
Your dark spaces? Your hidden closets
of self-pity and conceit?
Who am I to stroke your narcissism?

I'm better off stroking myself.
At least I'll respect myself in the morning.

Writing isn't for happy people
is it?

Joy doesn't change people
the way pain does

Broken people
cut me
so I feel it
deeper

Am I an emotional masochist?
Or is that a sadist?
How can joy compare?
It's not as sharp
You can't cut meat
with spoons
You need the knifes edge
You need to bleed

Feeling something
is better
than feeling nothing

I gotta work tomorrow
it's getting too late for self pity.