the word well.

sometimes the pain creates a well in my chest
a well 
with a bucket 
that overflows with words
words for how it feels 
at 3 am
when i realize i might never see my grandmother again
words for when people break you down
to feel better about themselves 
words
for how it feels
to have nothing left
but still be going 
still be breathing 
living
but
not
because
you may be alive
but the light has faded from your eyes
and you dont smile anymore
you arent living 
trapped
in the fingerprint smuged glass
that hangs on the wall
over the sink in the bathroom
i see you
i see me
and how it feels
its stepping on shattered glass
and not caring
its the taste of unsweetended chocolate 
and salt thrown across the floor
its the way my voice breaks 
when i try to tell you 
the words
that i pull up
slowly 
painfully 
in my little bucket
meld 
and form 
and grow
into a plant that will never see the sun
its a thing of darkness
we both know that
no chipping yellow paint
can cover the anger that stirs 
when 
you 
pull 
on the rope 
to that
bucket
when you make me cough up words
just by smiling
when 
i oblige
and let them spill across the computer screen
untill all i feel
is empty 
my well of words
has been drained
but
my hope has grown
into a small sprout
that peaks shyly out of the ground.