the storms that followed me home

constant fear, constant flow, constant anger.
thoughts raged in her mind,
sobriety her final enemy, it seemed.

they attacked with pitchforks and automated weapons,
her skin hadnt become exactly bulletproof yet,
but her crocodile skin proved her past suffering,
scars displayed her recent battles, frequent and persistent,
both within herself and through the forests of illusions.

just inside her substantial exoskeleton,
lay feeble machinery,
tattered from years of quiet despair,
perhaps self inflicted, but draining regardless.

imaginably, spirits will rise and good days will follow,
but the storm hasnt passed, nor the dawn spread,
and her frail consciousness finds it hard to remember the sunshine,
depleted of positive energies, emitting strange vibrations.

the thunder no longer frightened her.