Thursday, 3 April 2014
You wet your lips with a tongue that tastes of nothing,
your throat is scratched and brittle,
the water fountain is before you,
and yet you can't approach it and drink.
You rather lay down and die,
than suffer for another moment.
That's how it feels,
every single time. Like nettles brushing over your skin
relentless, and unkind.
Breathing seems impossible, a heartbeat is a forced effort
and the damp of your palms and everywhere else
reminds you of an involuntary reaction you'd give anything to be rid of.
I'd ask for nothing else again, if I could just have that.
Because I am dehydrated, and the water is so thinly dripped onto my tongue.
Posted by Miss Siviter at 06:40