People talk about a calm that they claim to see in the midst of a storm but I have yet to see the time or place where my calm coincides with peace. Maybe my calm is hyperventilation sparked from the thought of what my future holds and who will be in it. Maybe my calm is the stream of tears that run down my face ever so quietly when my mother and I sit side by side in the car without saying a word. Maybe my calm is the second after I punch a wall and the anger that was building up has finally found its way out and now I can breath without the splint in my lungs poking me every time, pushing me closer and closer to the edge. Maybe my calm is the last yell that makes it into dads’ and mine conversation about how unearthly my love is for another woman. Maybe my calm right after the last slap, where the sting is still there but I know it’s done now. Maybe my calm is the rage of the storm where everything is going so fast no one can keep up, but I promise I’ll find a way to keep up. My calm is the fight to live.