for years you spat your words
into the well of me
and for the life of me
i have been dredging them up
watering bitter roots
and drinking them down
accustomed to the taste of their poison
always that first sip sweet
as a memory created of
things meant to be
of fate or destiny
but I have become dried up
and tired
a husk of wondering if there's
any me left
at the bottom of that well
