When I was eleven, the storm broke my house – my home.
It ripped apart the ceiling; one roof tile at a time.
I could feel it. I could feel something bad coming to crack the walls
open as the sun rays that lit up my house through the skylight
hid behind the dark clouds.
The sky was about to cry and so was I.
When I was eleven, the storm stole my favourite toy from me,
my mug, the white walls that were no longer white as by age eleven,
I drew the universe of my mind on it.
My canvas. My graffiti.
When I was eleven, the storm stole the
last ten years of my life from me.
It wiped my past from the face of the earth.
at age eleven,
I stand in the crumble remains of the carcass of my life.
The storm shattered everything.
It pulled it off from it’s very foundation and it took me too…
slowly…slowly; I felt it.
I felt myself being consumed
by the storm that took away everything.