Hurricane

I am a hurricane.
A swirling vortex of haunted eyes and running away,
of disappearing when people need me the most.

In middle school we were told to compare ourselves to a hurricane,
prophecize about our future strength,
speak with clarity, because we were only gusts of wind.
And over time those gusts became torrents.
And I became a whirlwind with my class.
but a few of us went off course, and
tore apart everything that we loved.

We were only Bermudian kids,
taught how to pack our stuff and leave when the going got rough
how to hide inside when a hurricane came over our little island;
we weren't told where to hide when we became the storm.
Sitting in our beds as the first gusts picked up in our chests
hiding in the bathroom as the rain poured down,
screaming for help because drowning doesn't feel too nice.

I am a hurricane.
I am not storm, nor something beautiful that poets compare to lovers,
I am destruction.
Yet somehow scars, howling wind, and rainy days have meaning.
Poets compare me to the anger they hold within them.
Somehow, being a hurricane isn't so much of a curse,
as naked beaches, and decimated towns, and rebuilding,
letting loose the inevitable storm.