Opposites and Synonyms

It's a storm inside this heart, underneath the chest muscles and the bones, and the self-made fortresses. It's a hurricane in this brain, under the hair, the skin, the skull, the obvious consciousness. It's a mess, this body under the perfectly pressed clothes, under the practiced smiles and lined eyes and painted lips. It's the ocean and the shore, and mountains upon mountains of ashes buried underneath the waves, it's salt and tears and cold whipping winds. 

It's not simple underneath this deconstructed facade, it's death and blood, despair and the moon pulling the tides to and fro. It's lullabies and screaming songs, soft strums and wailing electric guitars, it's red roses in pretty vases and forests of giant trees at the same time. It's the tiniest kitten with the loudest roar, and the battle-scarred wolf with the softest heart, it's opposites and synonyms rhyming all at once and never again.

It's a mess inside this body, it's all bruises and self-inflicted wounds. It's casket upon casket of dead selves with flowers sprouting from breathless chests and hearts clutched in frozen fingers. It's where the world ends and where it begins, and it's the meadows in spring and the deserts in summer, it's the rushing river and the dry river beds. It's the thunder storms and the shining sun, and they're all together and separated; and it's every bit confusing and every bit beautiful and fearsome at the same time. 

It's reds and blues, greens and oranges, purples and yellows, and blacks and whites all together, in equal measures. It's the tempest and the calm ocean, it's flame and ice, it's life and death; and it's underneath our skin, below the muscles, the tendons, the arteries, the blood, the bone, the marrow. It's in our souls and the mitochondria of our cells. It's who we are, who we want to be, who we are not, and who we become. It's our storm, and our hurricanes, and our mess; and it's glorious.