Floods fall out of me.
Hurricanes inside.
I was the home of the storms,
but they left me dry.

It was the mirage,
in the dessert.
I had no water left.
So the cacti crept up,
grew taller and wider,
and they poked me until I bled.

I could try, but what’s the use.
There is always a storm, or a drought.
I could try, but I feel I will soon say
goodbye.