It arrived
first in droplets,
then—all at once—
a great monsoon.
Monday: a plea to you,
clutching your umbrella
like a shield against the drizzle:
"Let me make again
sometimes at 2 a.m."
left to slip
off your watchtowers.
That night, after you left,
I walked hoodless
until soaked through—
a quiet rebellion.
Wednesday: texts to a friend,
"I wish to veer off these rails,"
and later, at a coffee shop,
"I want to go."
Storm clouds swelling
against your citadel—
strong enough to hold me,
strong enough to hold me still.
Friday: the rain outgrew the sky.
It tore through strongholds and
stormed up spiraling steps.
With every window bolted
and all passages sealed,
the only way out
was to leave.