Acid tears once scoured my face
the way only water and pain can-
Deserts are beautifully dry,
alive with death.
Teeming with naked quills
you fall upon in spite of yourself,
scorpions who scuttle away
even as you run after them
begging for even a tiny sting
to remind you there was once something
so much kinder.
Even the sand is red and coarse,
my chapped hands stacking stones
so stunning, their sunset striations
fool me into thinking I am home,
when what I want is rain-
of all things to hope for in a desert-
as these blisters and burns
take the shapes
of everything I could have been,
and everyone I ever was.