By Kimberly Madura
She stands in a wasteland of her
Not for lack of water,
but because she
She desperately needs to be
by this rainstorm,
but she has a
fear of rain.
Take the water
before it is too late, I plead with her,
before the fire takes you down.
She bathes herself in honey and oil instead,
but it only makes her burn faster.
Her mind is swept up in a dustbowl.
She is stuck in the wild void inside her.
Something like water will never be water.
Something like love will never be love.
She burns in the wasteland of her own making.
And the smoke rises up in the Badlands.