You tell me
Grown men don’t cry.
As a man I am not allowed to cry
As a man I am supposed to rage and shoot fire from my fingertips
And I do not want to relate to that.
I do not want to be the volcano
Smouldering red hot rage
Boiling up
And raining down from the heavens.
I am not the volcano.
And yet I can feel white
hot Molten rage
Flow through my veins
When I think of the way
You told me
Grown men don’t cry.
As if you’d prefer me to build it all up. Whole body shaking
Until cracks breach my skin
And with an almighty roar I fracture
warping everything around me.
Raining down death and destruction indiscriminately
Cause at least that way I’m not the only one who’s hurt.
You’d prefer the volcanic ashes of our love to fall down like feathers
Staining people’s skin with the stories of us. Burning the shadows of ourselves into all of the places we once lived and loved each other.
So that years later once everything has cooled and my heart has hardened up like magma
Others can come and admire the ghosts of our love.
I wonder, can they feel the fear of our final moments?
Moments before I proved you right.
That I was a volcano.
But you, you were the one that set me off. And now I don’t cry
Not because grown men don’t cry
But because the magma in my veins
Pumping through my heart
Has grown cold and hard in your absence.
I both fear and await the day my heart begins to heat back up.
C.C.
(I did mention I’d occasionally post my poetry)
