I don't like this. But I don't not like it, either.

I am in someone else's bed. Using someone else's computer. In a few minutes, I will get up and use someone else's toothbrush. And I am listening to the sound of the rain through someone else's window. But the rain is mine. The thunder is mine. The lightning is mine. It covers me up and cleans me, if I let it. Because it loves me and it is mine.

I must lie in its grass, accept its embrace, and it will clean me. Washing away the sorrow and filling me up with itself. Washing away the sorrow and filling me up with me. I must lie in its grass, accept its embrace, and it will hold me, so gently. And I will feel small. I will feel small and sad and fading, always fading. With my eyes closed, my head against the damp grass, my fingers feeling the water as it runs over my body, into the grass and away from me, I will be cleaned.

This rain, this thunder, this lightning. It is mine. It does not reject me, and it does not ask me to change. It fills me, it covers me, and it holds me, so tender, in the darkness of its shade. And it tells me, again and again, over and over, with every drop of water against my skin: itwillfade itwillfade itwillfade.