I think moss is growing, webs are forming, poison ivy is creeping, weeds are sprouting, willows are weeping, inside my chest. I can hear the echo of a tiny, wavering voice, calling down the wishing well cavern inside my rib cage. "Help me..." "Don't forget me..." My shriveled, weary heart thumps and drums feebly against my flesh, crying out for attention, creating tremors, earthquakes, in my overgrown, suffocating, internal garden. The ripples, in the pools resting on my chest, tell me "You're still there."