Temperamental is the fan that pushes the air, that presses against face, and pulls at my hair.
The blistering flame in the sky, beckons the salt water of my porous skin.
Fallen, I am. Hands and knees reading the course unevenness of the dirt that lies beneath.
Nothing am I. Unable to withstand, unable to outlast, unwilling to try..
Mother must be angry. I draw what seems like my last breath from the punishing winds.
Desperately, I attempt to shout at and the forces bludgeoning me down, releasing only a mere whisper.
Why? Said I.
You are why. Said she.