He was the water in the storm,
The violent beat of falling rain,
Lulling my heart into false content,
His gentle hands a hurricane.
And with them he held my face,
Waves breaking over my cheeks,
Shutting my eyes to the storm,
Wet with tears as he speaks.
His calm voice tells me he’s sorry,
For all that my killer has done,
He’s sorry his storm tore me apart,
because he raised it as his son.
His rain lashes at the windows,
Until everything but my world stands,
As he takes my life and shakes it,
With his hurricane hands.
So to my killer I address this,
It’s either a love letter or my note,
In the storm the ink is running,
And my words stick in my throat.
They held my head beneath the waves,
As his tide came rushing to shore,
My killers watched as I sank deeper,
And I watched as the rain did pour.
His storm has coloured my everything,
It is my night, my life, my day,
And no love, no hate, no killers,
No, nothing will take it away.