Andi Leigh Writes

I was spinning in darkness and slowly became aware of my upset stomach. I felt it gurgle, calling out to me in a way that did not beg for food, but in a way that begged for me to sit up in order to rush the stomach acid back in place. I was laying on my back. I could not open my eyes. They felt crusted over and I took my time to pull apart my sticky eyelashes, allowing a dim light to peek through. The light fluttered through my squinting eyelids and then I inhaled deeply, noticing the clean breath I had just taken in, and then with a slow exhale I tightened my eyelids and blinked open as hard as I could to separate the top lids from the bottoms. I hated when my eyes would feel sticky this way. I thought about my allergies and how tree pollen would do this to me every year. When I blinked I saw a gray sky and the tops of trees. The trees were tall, their branches swayed across the weathered sky. This confused me because I had no idea how I ended up waking up surrounded by trees. I wasn’...

There is something painful About waking in the sunlight, With nowhere to go, with No one to see once eyes Are flooded with possibility. The light calms the room Where loneliness sleeps Beside an exasperated soul. There are no cordial greetings. There are simply fleeting Mumbles of wanting.

There is heartbreak in a Nail-clipped fiasco. Energies are taken away and the will To ignore the spiral Is bashed against a brick wall— Bloodying knuckles And taking away claws.

Sprouts may reach and sway, Hoping for new sticks to climb Or blades of grass to overshoot— What kind of view will sprouts Wish to see When they are not so small— Towering over mountainsides, Watching the rivers flood— Knowing that even As tall as they are, A strong gust on the wrong day Could make their towers fall‚ but At least they can sprout again And renew forever.

It is getting late But I know I can’t sleep. There is no work tomorrow— Maybe a few places Where we’d need to go But the onslaught I feel In my ribcage Is unwarranted. There is time—we have Slow moments To live through first.

Why are there explosions Within the confines of myself While nothing around me Grants permission for the Insufferable detonation That I will not allow— I am tired of holding up The barricade.

I hunger— With a stomach Impatient, Eyes in need of any Morsel— How much longer Must I wait— I wait, Until the pains Are potent— But after indulging, My stomach Remains insatiable.

In the unforgiving Winter months, My bones are brittle sticks— My skin is dry leafage In the sun. I need the grass to pop up And cheer me on. I am a tree Beaten by the winds. I need my foliage To keep me warm.

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.

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?