Sometimes you wake up thirsty and go to drink and it quenches your thirst so greatly you fall back into a deep sleep. But other times, you can’t stop drinking and the drinking makes it worse and you read but the cat gives you one small scratch along your stomach, vertical and sly. And you go to wash it off with everything else, a quiet shower, and it stings, and your soap leaves you feeling sticky, and then you burn, not like fire, but a carpet rub, and of all the places to sting, it’s there—the gut. It haunts and pulls as if the pain of every child gurgles underneath every skin that dances awake. And I believe mine thinks it’s Jesus. The scandalous die slow and are mocked forever. And we still thirst with our tongues even if we’ve never been dying of it.