Andi Leigh Writes

The time varies When you're breaking in New boots. Heels may bleed— Blisters may say hello— We think it's worth it Even when our scrunched toes Shriek, But in the end when the work Is done And the boots soften, They'll last for miles.

At three in the afternoon We'd trudge down Northampton Street And take refuge in friends' houses Where we could be ourselves, Telling ghost stories And discovering who we really were Until it was time to go home And return to our own ghost stories That we wanted to escape. Now, It's years later and Northampton Street Is just another road some of us May drive down But I do believe we have all moved Away from the home-bound ghostly tales That we were desperate to shake All those years ago.

Our car’s engine made a sputtering noise. It was only for a second and I felt my heart nearly jolt out of my chest. The car was fine after the moment of panic. We were still moving steadily down the road. I knew that there would be a turnoff soon and that a dirt road would bless our tires and send the car shaking down a bumpy path. It was early morning. The sun hadn’t even peaked over the distant mountain range yet. Todd was half asleep in the passenger seat and I bit slightly down on my cigarette, savoring the smoky taste. The sputtering noise did not make me feel at ease. I’d spent too much money on this old piece of junk but at least it could still get me where I needed to go. The driver’s side door would creak when you’d open it. It seemed to not close all the way. The back windows would not roll down properly. If you rolled them down they weren’t going back up. There was rust—a lot of it. And to top it all off, the windshield had a good crack in it. I wasn’t sure where that came f...

I want the rushing winds To help carry the meticulous worries That live within my jumbled head Far away—allowing me to enjoy The emptied peace.

There can be a thought In the limelight— An idea that springs forth, Standing strong Over rotting strings Of lost intention— There is also opportunity For that single star To be a nefarious actor.

Some people are callous And try to squash you Under their stomping heels. They pay no mind To the softness of petals. They do not see the depth Of a gentle paw. They barrel through The current of divulgence— So why pay them any mind?

I want to wash my salted wounds And never see the blood again. Though I know my signature Will run down my burdened arms, Pushing my mistakes forward— It is an accustomed affliction That I must learn to bandage.