Parched

My lips, parched.
Eyes, downward arched.

Thirsting
Yearning.

Tired are these bloody lips
That hold blood-stained strips
From all the bloody skin they’ve ripped
And all the bloody wounds they’ve licked.

Tired are these soppy eyes
That hold raindrops in disguise
From all the fantasies they’ve pondered
And all the realities they’ve squandered.

Give me some chapstick.
Won’t that do the trick?