Ash in my mouth. Every millimetre of the surface of my tongue blotted to dustry dryness.
I have swallowed some hard medicine these last days. Choke it down, choke it down. How much is a thirst for things I cannot have, and how much is the pills? How much is it the gulping back of tears, a hollow in the pit of my stomach where part of my inside has been blasted out, imperceptible to the outside world? How much is the dry mouth of fear at the prospect of walking on with the ground cut from beneath my feet? This is the sour, metallic taste of humiliation.
It is hard to tell the poison from the cure, sometimes. Meanwhile I try not gag on this bitter pill.
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