They told me to calm down, 

But I’m a hurricane on the inside

With whipping winds that will turn
my umbrella stomach inside out. 

They should have told me 

To not go swimming in the sadness. 


They told me to calm down, 

But I’m a volcano on the inside

oozing of molten magma that
scorches from the inside,
chars and hardens my heart
until it stings from third degree burns.
I thought my blood was tainted lava.

They should have told me

To not cut open my veins to let the poison out.

They told me to calm down,

But I have a forest fire inside me

That rushes up my throat and smokes out my voice box 

so that I can’t speak.

I choke down my words 

so I don’t let the ashes spill out.
They should have told me
not to try to put out the flames with my tears
because sometimes instead of saltwater,
I cry gasoline.


They told me to calm down,

But my fingers are earthquakes

and my heart has too many fault lines.

I’ve got tornadoes in my lungs
and a blizzard in my brain.

And they said I’d be okay,
they promised the storm clouds
would blow away.

But I’m just another natural disaster