Heat waves.

The rain is sparse,
but I hear it inch its way closer.

I catch glimpses of its candor
through the lavender fields,
only to realize, hours later,
when migraines and mirages
coat my appendages like sand,
that I'm dreaming behind dormant eyes.

I try to recreate the comfort
of summer storms by taking a
shower, cherry blossom trees
planting themselves beneath my feet.
I can't stay here for too long.
My brain sends signals of distress
to my lungs and soon I'm breathing
in shallow sputters.

"I don't have time"

but that's not true.

I have everything, including time.

I retreat back to my bed
in all of its (none of its) glory.
When dawn comes, I wonder
if my body will be shriveled up.
I wonder if my tongue will turn
to sawdust and sing in shrill tones.

It will be another day where I question
whether or not I've made a sound.
If the ghastly screams were a
hemorrhage or a false escape.

I wonder if it will matter how
far my sound can travel.
I've been screaming for years now,
yet no one's traced it back.

I wonder why the rain won't come.

I wonder why it isn't trickling down,
hushing the dissenters.

I wonder why nobody hears it.