I wait every day 

For a good storm 

A real thunder shaking the world 

And the pounding on the roof of raindrops 

I'll stand on the wet cement, barefoot 

No, I'll dance 

I'll sing and I'll shout and I'll shriek as the sky flashes 

That's what I promise as I attach my calendar to the wall 

With a sticker strip (I'm told it won't damage the paint) 

Because I can't put nails in 

I can't put mulch in the bed 

Or roots in the clean dirt 

My ballpoint pen presses too hard and leaves a scar on this month's picture It crosses right through the arms of the girls who dance in a happy circle It's March, as the dance on Daisy heads 

All autumn 

All winter 

And now it's wet outside, I'm still waiting 

It's back to opening night and I'm peeking past 

The ice queen's shoulder, the wardrobe I found at the thrift store for fourteen dollars No, wrong night. 

The one where I do my monologue in a british accent 

I got full marks 

I enchant the drama teacher, but 

Somehow I missed the part where 

I finally get to stay somewhere 

That's the lie, isn't it 

Because now I nod off when I'm hungry 

And the needles cut my hands 

There's no time to process why the mirror only shows who I want to talk to half the time I just want a good storm