Zinc and Silver

a clap of thunder
a flash of light

I flinch for a moment
the pen held still above my diary page

the air is still clear, however
the quarrel is of my mind and not of the sky

I play with my skirt, I critique my intent,
but the bell cannot be unrung.
It haunts my days and stalks my dreams
I must get it out; I mustn’t be deterred.

Pen to paper is needle to skin
every scratch, every poke.
Because I must, because I should
even though it hurt
perhaps because it hurts