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"Bleed the Sky"
The sky bursts open,
not gently,
not softly,
but like a body breaking,
like something holding on for too long
finally letting go.
The first drop hits—
hot asphalt hisses,
dust rises like ghosts startled awake,
and the earth opens her mouth
like she’s starving.
There’s no beauty here.
No poetry.
Just the raw writhing of water finding cracks,
finding hunger,
finding every place that aches or crumbles or waits.
The rain doesn’t ask permission.
It doesn’t care where it falls—
forest, rooftop, desert, skin.
It pounds against leaves as if to punish them
for turning their faces away,
fills the throats of rivers
until they choke on their own rushing,
slides down windowpanes like tears
too heavy to hold back.
And it keeps going.
There is no tenderness in this.
This is not about grace.
This is about gravity and surrender,
the weight of billions of tiny impacts
stripping the world bare.
And something in you loosens—
against your will,
unraveling in the rhythm,
in the relentless pounding that reminds you of your own breaking,
of the times you couldn’t stop falling.
You stand there,
letting it hit you,
letting it drench everything you thought was safe.
Maybe this is what healing feels like:
not silent, not soft,
not clean.
But messy.
Wet hands in the dirt,
skin soaked,
blurry vision as everything spills.
The rain knows.
It always knows.
It comes to destroy,
and in the destruction
it leaves something you didn’t know you were—
raw, gasping,
and growing.