::Desiccation

Every time one of you steps in from the alley, the dust blows in around your ankles.  It’s dead dry outside.  The world is wilting away.  The lawn is all broken promises and even the trees seem to be wishing for a vacation.  The clouds swoop in low every few days and hang their heads down, grumbling to one another about what wankers we are, before taking all their precious cargo over to Ohio. 

Of all places, Ohio.  The nerve.

So I’m up on the roof, if you wondered why the place was dark.  Smelling the dust and pollen and heat on the air.  I forgot to leave a note, but you might note that the trap in the corner is thrown open and the sunset is pouring through, filthy gold.  Some tables are thrown aside to make room for the ladder.  I’m up here sipping on a glass of something that burns, watching the sun set and wondering if I should expect tumbleweeds and cow skulls the next time I make a break for the grocery.  If I should start a secret cactus farm on the next building over – they’d never notice.

The sun is gone now, leaving just sloppy, gorgeous smears behind.  I’m in a strange place this evening, like some stranger had made a mixtape in my heart.  I recognize some of the tracks, and the ones that are new resonate strangely – but somehow they fit.  Odd conflicting things that should be like oil and water are sitting side by side in my ventricles, snorting and daring me to DO SOMETHING about the contradiction if I’m so tough.

I’m feeling lonely and deprived, but also strangely content.  Horny but apathetic.  Deliriously lazy but also jittery-electric, like I’m waiting for the earth to move or for lightning to strike.  I’ve been shuffling my MP3 collection, nervy and clumsy like they’re a pack of cards, and I can’t quite find the right thing to match.  I am feeling stabby and seductive, sarcastic and vulnerable and all-around strange.  Ready to lift mountains and throw them.  Waiting for the world to pass by.  Excited – frustrated – and standing outside it all, watching the shadows grow long, assuming it will all sort itself out.  Dry and withered and secretly moist and delicious, on the inside.

I’m digging my claws into the cinder blocks, chewing on destiny and not liking the taste.  Change is coming.  I’m ready to face the heat and the hammer, and beat myself into my own strong blade.  Change is coming, and you’re all here waiting to see what fur and spines and eyestalks are going to start rippling up when the full moon rises.  I hope I won’t disappoint.

But, really, what are you expecting from me, anyway?