Andi Leigh Writes

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.

We are on solid ground With shoes digging into the soft soil, Our heels are waiting to taste the roots We have never put down until now. The birds hop around our bark-covered bodies, Looking for a place to build their nests. They are mistaken Because we cannot hold any more homes. Winters will be rough on our shoulders. There is no firewood to be found Except for the twigs we drop that are Too small to hold a flame. We can hear the worms digging, Tunneling under the roots, hoping to Have us spat from the earth we are desperate To keep our home, even when our Nestless bodies remain out of place. No matter, We keep to ourselves and let the worms Wriggle without a hint of food given By our hand. The birds still come around. Our roots cease to be removable.

There is no guilt in being ragged. There are tales in all the frays. A canvas lives in sullen eyes. The needle fares for many days.

I am stuffed  Under the arched dawn With telltale signs  Of weathered sleep. And repose is  Fluttered blinks away While watchful ticks  Are slow to keep.