Stormy Waters
Scroll
The Poem
Stormy Waters
The wind was never at her backfor long.It would arrive,warm, lifting,the specific windof a voicethe world recognized immediatelyas the thingit had been waiting forwithout knowingand then turn,the way winds turn,the way fame turns,the way the thingthat carried youbecomes the thingcoming at youand there is no shelterbecause the shelterand the stormare the same structureand you are inside both.
She drowned in the joy of it.Not the drugs.The art.The art that required everything,that opened every doorin the nervous systemand left them open,that made the feelingthe whole pointand the feelingwas always too muchand not enoughsimultaneously.
The hearttoo big for the chest that held it.The voicetoo honestfor the world that wanted it.She gave it anyway.She gave it all.
Don’t tell my mom.The graffiti knows.The street knows.The wall that holdsevery name and every secretand every declarationof someonewho needed to say the thing somewhereeven if only on a wall in the rain.
Don’t tell my mom
It knowswhat the famous face above it knows,what the lighthousestanding patient in the bluealready knew:that the monsters are loudest at night,that resistance is not always failure,that sometimes the stormis simply largerthan the person standing in itand that is not a verdicton the person.
Fame is an assault.She knew this.She named it in every song.
The famous doghas no idea he is famous.Just happy for the treats.Just happy for the simpleuncomplicated lovethat asks nothingexcept presence.She wanted that.She sang about wanting thatin the only language she hadwhich was also the thingthat made her famouswhich is also the wholetragic beautiful loop of it.
Dear Amy.You gave more than you took.You gave the voicethat sounded likeit was telling your secretand my secretand everyone’s secret simultaneously,the voice that knewwhat heartbreak sounds like from the insideand sang it so preciselythat everyone who heard itfelt less alone in theirs.
That is not nothing.That is everything.That is the only thingart is actually for.
Her heart was too big.Not the drugs,not the fame,not the stormthat surrounded herwith its relentless indifferent weather.The heartthat felt everything at full volumebecause she never learned to turn it downand never wanted toand that opennesswas both the voice and the woundand the gift and the cost,all of it the same thing,inseparable,hers.
Her heart was too big
We felt every bit of it.Still do.The voice is still in the roomwhen you play it,still telling the truthwith that specificlazy leaning accuracyof someonewho aimed directly at the feelingand never missed.
She wanted to be here.You don’t sing like thatabout a world you don’t love.You don’t hurt like thatabout a life you don’t want.She wanted to be here.The storm was just louderthan anyoneshould have to endure alone,and she endured it longerthan we knew,and she gave us the musicwhile she did,and we are still listening,which is the only waywe know how to saywe loved her,by playing it again,by feeling it again,by letting her voicedo what it always did,tell the truth so preciselythat everyone who hears itfeels less alone.
Dear Amy.
We felt every bit of it.
We still do.