If I were to drink from the wrought iron, desperation would quickly fill the room.

If I were to glance behind me, I would grow brittle and break apart.

If I were to let the scent of nourishment waft up and up, I would starve.

I think that if I were to be myself, there would be nothing left at all.

I would desiccate, I would hunger and thirst.

Desolation would always haunt my horizons vertically like an X.

If the uncaused cause were to touch me, if the cold stars were to be in my blood, if in my mind were the small but essential pieces of everything

Would I care or would I float away?

There’s a deep anchor in my belly to the ground where it hurts but I see now there’s a settled dark center with light


One thought on “Dry

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