one of the many lies
learned the hard way
was that lightning
doesn’t strike twice
if you were to run your hands
across the lichtenberg scars
that trail down my chest
an array of fern leaves
in puckered flesh
each leaf engraved
with the ghost of a smile
as each blood vessel burst
with every last kiss
lingering discharge
across deadened skin
faint whiffs of perfumes
the taste of salty tears
maybe lightning doesn’t
typically strike twice
except when drawn toward
an amateur stormchaser
a human lightning rod
a collection of soulembers
in the shape of a heart
a smoking ruined husk
crawling resolutely towards
his final indignation

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