Parched -

That’s when I understood. The drought wasn’t outside. The drought was the house, the town, the season. But the parched —the real, bone-deep parched—was me. It was the sound of a future that had forgotten how to rain.

I remember the precise moment thirst stopped being a sensation and became a presence. Parched

I just listened.

I went to the sink. Turned the tap. A groan, a shudder, and then a thin, brown trickle. Nothing more. That’s when I understood

And inside me, a strange desert was blooming. My tongue felt like a piece of suede. My lips were two slices of old parchment. But deeper than that, in the hollow behind my breastbone, there was a thirst that water couldn’t touch. A parchedness of the self. I had used up all my cool, green words. My laughter had turned to dust. Every memory felt like a photograph left too long in the sun—faded at the edges, curling inward. But the parched —the real, bone-deep parched—was me