Poem: i owe you . . . caution

 by Megan Ampim

oh… this is strange…

what were you saying?

apologies. i was burning

down this wall. kicking… stubborn.

some help, please?

you seem tired. haha, narcissism again on

my part. i got a breather earlier;

my lungs are tied with bags of

sand and stones and other little things of the sort.

you were not supposed to know my flowering secrets.

it hurts, just a little… arms to ash.

weary, heaving at immovable things –

why? how are you okay with this? too many

eyes on me. on you.

aeons, still adjusting. they promised space.

my void or your aid?

one or the other? both or neither?

wake, stay awake. i say in words, not mine:

‘you can’t rest here – you’ve gotta wait for eve.’

heavy, isn’t it? your oceans darken. they 

almost don’t. you think i don’t notice.

for you, i sew my lips together.

all you hear are thorns. they told you

i was in need of  water. weekly. ignore them.

you’ll bleed –

no worries. a few days and

the ivy hugs the wall slightly too tight,

or not at all. if you understand.

you might not. that heals me, just a little.

if you need me

i’ll be spacing out. too many colours.

if you can’t find me

know that i didn’t wait for eve.