-YOU you can’t beat a storm, stop pretending YOU’RE that tough, invincibility’s not a word, at least not one YOUR pockets can afford.
you beat back your sister’s boyfriends — and that’s not nothing, but what is a cyclone to be impressed with that? did YOU think that a storm had a heart inside itself with a pension for YOU, or penchant — whichever the word is? YOU are not lucky. YOUR bones would break easily on whichever deck that beast of wind chose to lay you upon.
what caused YOU to think otherwise?
I understand going to the wind, wanting it to flex those muscles larger than fleets. But what were you doing, raging against it, flopping your flimsy destiny before its graphene cards at the table of Powers. Did you not perceive how small was your hand? Did you think you could outbluff a hurricane? Chicken it?
What sort of Poseiden are YOU not? You are no god at all, you just watch them on t.v., on netflix, or at the show, with twelve-dollar popcorn in your mouth. The storm does not care what you saw a super-spy do with his fists and a bathroom towel. The storm is not false. But rather something real, that’s the only reason to come near it. Not to test your brawn, or bravo, your feminism, or whatever cause you thought you wield.
A storm is a reckoning. A wrecker of “warriors”
It holds what isn’t . . . against what is.
Now run!
