I lapped you up from the moment we first spoke.
I wanted you on my tongue, down my parched throat,
and around my body, out of it too,
until you became part of my system;
until all I had to do was lick

and listen.
You were tasteless back then, but I found myself seeking you
more than my mother's wine or her redundant poetry, which everybody hates,
or my father's cheap beer with its sharp bitter taste.
That day I said I am no longer your daughter for
I have found something more numbing than alcohol,
and more sustaining than water.
and sometimes

when I close my eyes I can feel you on my lips
and sometimes

in my dreams I impale you and you drip drip drip
My anchor, my rock, my light, but am I still your ship
I cannot draw a single thing from you
not anymore, like I could before, when with God I went,
when He said to speak to you,

and I did

and you gushed forth,

but now we are both silent.
No matter how many times I strike with a rod,
you stay quiet, and so does God.
Rivers runneth over, streams may be streaming,
but my mouth is dry from the screaming:
I'm dying of thirst in the middle of the sea;
I'm dying, I'm dying, unquenchable me,
without food I can still live for years,

but I die if I waste tears.

But I die if I let tears stay

and hydrate the sin within

and steal moisture till it breaks my skin

and
When was the last time I drank you in?