Andi Leigh Writes

I can hear your bonfire lungs, Your prickled sensibilities Wreak havoc on watered stone. There is a lurching pond The size of a dime In my tell-all hands. I could wait for iceberg brimstone But I'd be left to falter Against a drop through a needle eye.

I do not fear the heavens Catching me lacking— There is nothing in the bag To hide. I carry all of me. There is however a record shoved Between the bookends Of birth and death. Let that pain or joy speak On my behalf.  I am too tired to fight.

My heart is a hurricane And sometimes I am lost. My head falls to clouds And the lightning Shatters my hope. There are moments of Weakness—sure, Although I can see The rainbow waiting.

Tea in the morning seems like a task Out of reach. To be able to be myself, Even for a moment while I take a sip. Most mornings it’s just get up and go. No time for even a little time. There is no time to steep leaves When the world begs for attention That I’d rather give myself. But the world does not care if I Crash and burn in the wreckage That is being alive. We all pay the toll every day When we wake and feel the sweat On our foreheads that house dreams. Be it tea or any other small joy, It’s not meant to be an easy reach Unless you sacrifice a task In its gratifying favor.

I remember your knives and empty threats. They echo off the walls and down the hall, Even in places not my childhood home. My favorite color used to be blue Now it is a color that I always feel and I feel Thick ink under my skin where I shouldn’t have To be stained. I remember when the door would slam And my heart would slam shut too.

Will we keep our friendship around our necks Or store it on the curio shelf? Isn’t that a question we can never Truly answer until time has slipped away. I’d like to think of course, It’s written on our skin, on our hearts, But how can we be sure we can keep carrying The burdens of our youth When some are quick to store away Each other in a forgotten memento box. I remember you. I miss our time, our exploration, There were worlds traveled and life Was too big for the lot of us. We told stories, wrote unseen novels for A future that was never ours. I still hear you. How are you doing?

My blood is glue Boiling under roof tile skin, Under the judgmental sun Waiting for rain to come. My house is the aftermath Of heaven falling straight to hell, The adhesive peels, Revealing the mold that we breathe. I am in need Of renovations that will Stake me down, down And ready to settle. No more plans, no more revisions, Just one final teardown And a newly found Foundation That will keep me grounded And satiated.