It’s pouring and I wish the rain was warm, like the family football games and nightly hide and seek army style that seem to have become things of the past—disappearing like a friend when in need.

The storm outside smells like lost memories,
fallen plans,
and broken promises.

The lightening looks like unnoticed pain,
silent disgraces,
and memorized mistakes.

The rain feels like comfort stolen,
taken after my fingers glint over it,
replaced with cold loneliness.

The thunder sounds like rampaging tempers,
horror story memories,
And too many midnight fights witnessed as a child.

But I sit in the rain, and pray, that it won’t leave me, [like everyone else] because feeling this is better then not feeling at all. So I sit until the sun goes down, and welcome the chills that skip across my skin and the pain seeping in my mind, because it lets me know I’m still here. I’m still stronger because I haven’t given in.
I am still alive.
I have the scars to prove it.