Tectonic Bitches

Iceland is a geologic tantrum.
A slow-motion collision.
A heartbreak written in basalt and steam.

I went there to feel tectonic — to let my fault lines stretch in peace, to wander a place that cracked itself open and still called it survival.
It was supposed to be mine.
Until it started sounding like you.

You, with your glacial affect and magma-core contradictions.
You, who speaks like erosion:
gradual, precise, undeniable.

Iceland straddles the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.
It is literally splitting apart, and still standing.
So am I.
But then you showed up in the metaphor, like a smug continental shelf refusing to subduct, making my internal plates grind in ways that feel dangerous.

I am a mantle plume in sneakers.
A geothermal outburst.
A pressure event with a pulse.
I am heat that doesn’t ask permission.

You are the cryosphere in human form — cold storage with a heartbeat.
A perfect balance of climate-controlled detachment and just enough warmth to ruin me.
You once said you “travel the world” and I rolled my eyes so hard I saw the Northern Lights.

But now I can’t unsee it — your face in the rift valley, your voice in the glacial runoff, your mouth the exact color of cooled lava just before it stops steaming.

It is incompatible on paper.
Ask any seismologist.
But Iceland taught me that some places were born from contradiction.
That lava flows under ice caps and no one calls it unnatural.
That beauty doesn’t need to make sense — it needs to hold tension without collapsing.

You are not a spark.
You are a slow-burn geological process.
You are what happens when pressure meets restraint and calls it “coping.”
You are volcanic symmetry with bite.

And I hate that.
And I love that.
And I hate that I love that.

Iceland was the first place that ever made me feel understood.
Now it makes me think of your mouth.
And your opinions.
And your goddamn calibrated emotional resistance to, everything.

So I guess that’s ruined now.
Like glaciers.
Like pride.
Like me.

Author’s Note

\No, I will not elaborate. Not even under medieval rack, emotional waterboarding. Not even if you made me ice bathe naked with my ex while someone reads my old journal entries out loud in front of a panel of therapists and every girl I’ve ever ghosted. Not even if I lose a third nose ring in the Blue Lagoon and Björk herself emerges from the steam to demand context.