Drought

You are trying to water a plant with one tiny cup you refill by stealing from your own body. You pour and pour, even as your tongue cracks and your soil turns to dust. All you want is to be seen, to have someone kneel beside you, press a hand to your wilting leaves, and give you water without being asked. To be tended to with the same gentleness you keep offering. But every drop you give them is a drop you rob from yourself. You’re dehydrated, dizzy, hollow, yet you still tilt the cup toward them, hoping they’ll finally look up and notice how your stem shakes. How your edges curl. How parched you’ve become. Do you have to completely wither for them to understand? Must your petals fall off, must your roots split open, before they think to bring you even a sip? Why can’t they see you drying out in front of them? Why must you beg for water when you’ve been raining on their garden for so long? And the worst part... the part you don’t say out loud, is how guilty you feel for wanting to be watered at all. How a corner of you whispers that maybe it would be easier to just rot, to let the bugs crawl in and eat whatever is left. To stop hoping, stop reaching, stop waiting for a mercy that never comes. Because at least then, you wouldn’t have to watch yourself dry up while holding a cup you never get to drink from.