this is me alone but not lonely.

I am a well, filled with clear
water with salt lined bricks, and
there is a swinging rope right
above me, trying to get me to 
pull it down and let it rise until
I am out—no, this rope is not
a noose, not a loop, just something
to tie a bucket to and bring
up more life to give to people
who need it.

I am the water in this well too -
that is to say that I am my
own tears but they are not sad
right now but they are not happy
either; I feel like crying for
no reason except, maybe, to
carve and erode away at the stone
that sits in my chest—just to the
side of my heart and not my heart
itself and yes, I know that's not
how this is suppose to go.

I am the red bricks of this well,
stained by the natural clay of the
earth and untouched by my dirty
blood - don't you know that 
could get the others sick? You visit
my town and try to drink from
this well and all around you try
and spy the dark edges that you
think are creeping in—there are no
shadows for you to see into just
as there is no darkness for you
to hide in.

There is no hanging noose (unless
you count the large crowns of
flowers the children make in the
fields, the ones that slip into a 
necklace instead) and there is no
running blood (except there is,
of course, but it stays locked where
it belongs and that is in me)
and there is no spitting evil that
is clawing at my skin, my mind, my
soul and I bet that surprises you
more than anything else.

My suffering is like this well: deeper
than what I can make out but
always filled with water—that is to
say always giving me what I need;
you see, the warm fire is lovely
on cold nights but I am already warm
enough yet there are no people
who speak of the sweet coolness
that is the water so I suppose I must
become the people - and say that
I am sorry while I'm here, after all
you wanted to see me burn when all
I ever wanted was to float in a
pool, in an ocean, in my very own well.