A Well Now Runs Dry

I.
My well is simply empty
so I say mean things,
heartbreaking, tragically monstrous things
I want you to cry and fill my pails brim
because these empty buckets
only leave me hating butterflies
A yearning to silently tear their wings
like rice paper, then lick them
and stick them to my face so I may fly
away and watch you
cut your hair because you’re really not
growing it out for me

II.
I want to construct beautifully weird sentences
that make you want to fall to your knees
at my brilliance
I want you to wish
that you were still with me
but you can never be again because
now I hate butterflies
and my pully brings me nothing
to give from an empty
bucket drying in a thirsty well

A Well Now Runs Dry

Jonathan Acosta-Rubio

New Orleans, United States

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