tornadoes in my limbs.

I think I would hate to live a life where I could not be able to wallow in a heartbreak, where I couldn’t be seventeen, eighteen, nineteen still not being able to get on a bicycle without tilting over, scraped knees painted red. I’ve always been the person who experiences extreme highs and lows, distinct blacks and whites (but still often find comfort in that area shaded gray). I am never sad, I am always depressed and I am never mad, I am furious. I feel words and opinions like sharp edges on my skin, the electric bite of a vibrating voice box, always taking every single thing to heart a million times more than anyone ever really intends to. And I don’t cry very often but when I do, it is like tornadoes in my limbs, where I can’t breathe, where I can’t even make a sound outside of of a sob. These are the things that make me want to be different and how quickly I am to realize that I am one of the lucky ones. That I am not numb. That these emotions are not just sparks at the ends of my fingers. No, that there is a fire within me. That I feel, in it’s entirety, what some can only get a taste of. I can swallow it whole. I don’t only see blue skies, I see skies that are azure, cerulean, burnt orange, gun-metal gray and I feel proud of the hurt sometimes because that is part of life. These tears mean something more than red eyes and wet lashes, if nothing else I will know that I exist. I exist.