by Orla T
In line at Kalahari lugging a heavy tube,
uncomfortable from the dampness which is copying my mood,
Trying to talk over the noise which is ringing in my ears.
Fog hovering in the air and threatening to give us aches, making it very clear they’re offering no mistakes.
Mom bugging us to drink more water,
While my skin’s drying hot and fast,
Making it feel like it’s rock
and planted in the ground with no one to dig it up.