The Volcano

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)

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