The Well

I feel like the deep well

into which all vessels empty.

Each cup that runneth over

spills its blackness into me.

 

My soul is a pool of shadows

into which you freely weep

while its shores your secrets keep.

 

Playing games

in which you pass your pain

they pass their pain 

again again

and I’m the woman-girl left with the gifts.

 

It’s heavy, now

carrying these morbid presents.

Bitter trinkets spill from pockets, beads like rain.

When I’m at the pity party

and for once I start the music

which of you will still remain?

 

I am become the grove of thorns

the close-writ Book of Death.

I am the rust-hinged treasury

of salted tears and panicked breath.

 

I

eternal small child

inviting eyes

warm smile

was never put on earth to heal myself.