Like the last droplets of water
in a lake drying from the drought,
I evaporate into the sky
leaving behind me a crust of salt,
signifying that I used to be,
and no man-made efforts to cool the Earth
could help me.
Like the feet of a desert dweller
betrayed by his instincts,
cut and slashed, as he lost his way,
I grow new skin around my scars,
now, numb towards the heated sand.
I don’t feel fresh wounds form
because they are old to me.
Like the fire that needs air to grow,
but is suffocated by a woodpile
in the hands of an amateur,
I try to see where the wind blows,
but it went to sleep, and you no longer hear
the sound of my flames dancing to the breeze.
He unknowingly killed me.
Who am I now?
Not a person, I figure.
At least, not anymore.
I am the last droplets of water
struggling to survive the heat.
I am the cuts left unnoticed
on the soles of my feet.
I am the burned firewood
from where I used to be.
I carry myself through these thoughts,
rebelling against my misfortunes.
I was many things, but all unprotected,
neglected, wounded, and killed.
I stare at myself long enough to know
my soul is slowly fading away, making room for the cold.
On my way out,
I see a blank note ready for me to fill.
I can write to the world, the sun, and the thorns:
I don’t feel as much anymore.
I don’t care as much anymore.
You are killing me.
But, I place it in my pocket;
one day I’ll write words of love instead.