Dry

My skin is getting drier. I look up to the ceiling and feel it cracking. mud spots in the desert. baked. a straw to the air sucking what little moisture is left. I remember being in Texas. How dry the days were there. I needed my cat to lick my skin. She spritzed me, the plant in the corner with browning leaves. She made sure I was watered. I’m a moistured kind of gal. I need it. I like soaking in sun, lotion that smells of my mom, water, dirt. I’ve always found it odd that leaving water makes you dry. I’ve always felt it should be the opposite.

My voice has been a little quiet these past few days. Only part of it worries me. The other part knows it will start shouting again. I’ve discovered the proper ratio to my new coffee and this morning I almost drank the whole cup.
It’s cold, but warm for here for now for November for almost Thanksgiving. The mail has grown wings and flies out of control around the dining room. But I’ve let it fly. I’ve watched the flowers start to die, sucking water from beneath their toes. I need to fetch them water, fetch the mail, fetch the moisture. I’m about to have 3 days alone and part of me can’t wait to be no where but inside.

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