It came like a hurricane—
a storm of my own making.
The winds rose, howling through every weakness I thought I’d hidden.
The rain lashed, cold and merciless, against all I had tried to build.
The water rose, filling my lungs with fear, my mind with panic.

In that terror, I searched for shelter.
I reached for the one who had always been my refuge,
the friend whose presence had once steadied me in the worst of gales.

But no shelter came.
No wall stood.
Because I had torn it down with my own hands.
With a thoughtless phrase, a line crossed, a trust betrayed.
What had once been unshakable—I fractured.
What had once been home—I made hollow.

And so the storm consumed me.
The wind stripped away what I thought was strength.
The waves drowned the last of my dignity.
There was no identity left when it passed,
only wreckage—splintered, unsalvageable,
a painful ruin where something good once stood.

And when at last the sky cleared,
when the clouds scattered and the world exhaled—
there was nothing left.
All was lost.