Every time she sees a cactus, her heart cracks back open, bleeding hurt all over her insides. The hurt colors her vision, dulling vibrancy to a lackluster grayscale. It muffles her hearing, deadening melody to a lifeless buzz. It desensitizes her tastebuds, quashing wine to stagnant water. It numbs her skin, anesthetizing the insides of her elbows to empty hollows. But her heart is not dulled, deadened, quashed, or anesthetized. Her heart is a throbbing, fiery ache of pain, longing for the desert.