Dry Spell

Woke up with it again, the rasp,

a ragged thing, tearing my throat.

Small, dry hits, a desperate gasp,

trying to dislodge some ghost.

The menthol drop, a cherry lie,

dissolves to nothing, slick and sweet.

It just hangs there, a question why,

this small, persistent, body's cheat.

It rattles in the quiet flat,

a frantic drum against the walls.

A little sickness, just like that,

reminding me how everything falls

apart, eventually. Little hacks,

a private, guttural attack.