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Island In The Hurricane

I'm always walking: spacious skies ahead, the weatherman said. Did he not remember to look behind him? Because there's a hurricane coming, eating up the heels of our scuffed feet but no one sees it, no one but me.
(They see me through their funny x-ray goggles like they can dissect me into pieces, little tiny jewels plucked from my pores to be chewed on and treasured and thrown away.)
I want to look behind me, but I'm afraid- the hurricane's coming, it really is- in my mind the faces- my old, old friends- never waver; the slippery grasps of their hands holding tight to the strange corners of my heart.
I'm always walking ahead but today I want to hold on to who I used to be: but the hurricane, the hurricane's hit and all I can feel is a sharp tug as I feel my island drifting away.
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