Photo by Ian Watson

By Ian Watson

The constant hum from thousands of desert cicadas paired with a scorching dry heat provide consistency and comfort,

My skin goes from white to red in an instant;

The soles of my shoes begin to distress upon walking on the rocky dirt that surrounds everything I know,

I begin to peel

Itch, itch, itch –

What was once white and then red becomes a raw mix of both, sprinkling and gently falling to the desert floor;

Panting and breathing and inhaling and exhaling and in and out air enters and exits my mouth and evaporates before reaching my lungs

My flesh begins to melt away as I sink down into the ground, a puddle flowing into the pores of the earth

My consciousness remains intact,

An occasional birds flies above and glances down at beetles crawling around my liquifying body

I am the rocks and the mountains,

I fly with the birds and slither with the snakes,

Traveling as the hot air and flaming rays on the sun,

I am the desert.


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