She’s blindingly bright.

The kind that cuts you like a sharp blade, makes you squint if you look any higher than your own feet.

The kind that’s loud. 

Full of static, white noise,

that crowds your mind and blocks you from thinking,

until you blink and ask “what?” again and again.

The kind that demands repentance from you.

She’ll warm your skin, kissing you with glory, 

until a cloud comes along and you miss the joy like a lung. 

She’ll force you on your knees so you beg for her return.

But when she does, 

expect a blazing heat,

a sequel with something to prove,

until suddenly you’re begging for her to leave 

and she.

Won’t.

Listen.

She’s loud,

and demanding,

and insecure

and fickle.

You’ll be praying for her to leave,

for a break, for Christsake;

but as soon as she does,

you’re rubbing your eyes wondering where you went wrong.

Good luck with her. She’s a diva.

(Oh, and just wait until you go inside.

The world never looked grayer,

And the mediocrity throbs in your eyes.)