You Don’t Get to Call It Beautiful Now

There is a storm in my soul.
You saw it once—marvelled at it, maybe even feared it.
But you never understood it. You tried to tame it, contain it in promises too fragile for my thunder.
Now that storm is mine again. No longer stirring for you.

It dances to my own rhythm now, one you can’t follow.
It crackles with the fire of everything I reclaimed.
I am the electric silence before the lightning. The pulse before the quake.
Majestic, yes—but no longer yours to witness.

This storm doesn’t break me. It makes me.