I wear silence like a fevered cloak,
its fabric clings, it tastes of smoke.
Every breath is a plea suppressed,
every sigh, a tongue on my chest.
The weight I bear, I do not name;
it bends my back, it fuels my flame.
You see me calm—oh, shallow eyes!—
but inside me a furnace sighs.
The storm begins in subtle ways:
a quiver of lips, a pulse that sways.
My hunger moves in jagged light,
I ache to break, I ache to bite.
I shoulder duties without complaint,
but duty does not make me saint.
My blood remembers the primal call,
to burn, to tear, to claim it all.
Come closer, feel the trembling air,
my chaos scents your skin like prayer.
I am not ruin, not mere despair—
I am the thunder you dare not bear.
Yet even as I rage, I crave,
a secret touch, a mouth to brave.
For I am storm—unbound, possessed,
and in my madness, I am blessed.