This is How You Make a Storm
At thirteen I try to swallow the sky.
Try to lick it clean of rain so my stomach
balloons wide, so I can float above the world
and watch it from outside. But clear blue
traps me—a spotlight on stage—my eyes
pinned wide. And the audience is faceless
yet loud. They want sparks. They want flames.
I weave lightning into a show (do you see?),
scar my skin with electricity, sear lines
into my palms. Intermission and I claw
down cumulus and wring it dry. Knit
it against tongue against throat, each fiber
spooling around my organs and tightening.
I’m bleeding blue. Breaking through the stratosphere
and I’m cracking it open, searching for an exit sign,
lungs swelling to the brim. This is how you make a storm.
At thirteen I blow out the stage lights, look
myself in the eye and unhinge my jaw.
About the Author
Stella Lei is a teen writer whose work is published or forthcoming in Gone Lawn, Milk Candy Review, Whale Road Review, and more. She lives in Pennsylvania with her two cats and writes way too much about water. She is an Editor-in-Chief for The Augment Review and she tweets @stellalei04.