i don’t want to be a well,
that you only lower water down to
once a day,
or less if it storms.
when it rains,
i imagine i’m swimming in your tears,
soaked to the bone
in your dna.
i don’t want to be a well,
a stone foundation only standing
cause it’s expected to.
don’t wanna hold your secrets
and keep them;
i’m terrified of echoing stone walls.
i don’t want to be a well,
that’s only necessary if you’re thirsty.
when it rains,
you have other methods of drinking.
i don’t want to be a well,
far away from your home,
not part of your warm family.
i don’t want to be a well,
a cavern so deep
you can’t see
the bottom.
i need to be known entirely,
researched and studied,
so carefully,
that they’d cry if they spilled
liquid on me.
i don’t want to be a well,
that dries up in a drought,
so easily forgettable,
if it’s not needed around.
i don’t want to be a well,
i want to be well,
i want dinners inside, keep me alive,
not outside with the rainy season,
the growls and howls of wild beasts
untamed for such a quiet thing
as me.
i don’t want to be a well,
but i’m well over my head,
tripping over my own feet,
clunked with buckets constantly.
i want to be warm,
kept in from the cold,
the snow doesn’t know me;
i don’t know its fury.
would you get to know me,
if i wasn’t providing you energy
and love and my own sanity?
would you consider banishing
me?