It’s as if sand has coated the insides of my throat,
as if the desert just lightly took its paintbrush,
and dashed it across my mouth.

How is it that when I brush my tongue against my cheek,
it feels as if I’ve rubbed two slivers of paper against each other,
a grating sound escaping from my cracked lips.

I can hear a crackle as I speak,
as the corners of my mouth break away from their hardened shells,
created by beams of harsh sunlight beating against my face.  

It hurts to open my eyes for too long,
because the sun has become an ugly thing,
greedy to take away what little I have left.

The ocean taunts me with it’s deceiving appearance of fresh water,
and I begin to regret all those times I let the faucet run at home...
I can’t help but imagine that faucet trickling over my parched self...