The Storm That Took Her (Darker Version) Poem by MIRAK Montiel

The Storm That Took Her (Darker Version)

The nights didn't just bring storms—
they birthed them inside her.
Each one tore through her world,
leaving bruises where dreams once lived.

She never screamed.
She only cried—
silent tears, soaked into her pillow,
too afraid to wake the dark.

Secret prayers whispered through cracked lips,
begging for wings—
not to fly,
but to escape.

Sometimes she ran to the forest,
wishing it would swallow her whole.
She longed to vanish
among the roots and rot,
to disappear between the ghosts of trees
and the wings of dying butterflies.

But night always came back.
It always found her.
Pretty little eyes—
shattered glass,
leaking rivers of July.

The storm knew her name.
It wore a familiar face.
Its hands were cold,
but her silence was colder.

She closed her eyes,
but the knife went in anyway—
not steel,
but words and touch
and the endless ache of being unheard.

They say storms cleanse.
They lie.

Now she sleeps beneath the soil,
deep in the woods
where even the wolves whisper her name.
Where the fireflies flicker like broken stars,
leading nowhere.

Seven years old.
Forever.

And this story—
this unbearable story—
bleeds through every line I write,
like she's still trying
to speak. MIRAK