Here's the thing about wells:
none of them are bottomless.

They're deep and hopeful, but with limit.
If you dip the pail too often and too far,
the clanking will pound like heartache,
back up to your unsuspecting ears,
a violent,
hopeless and muffled toll.

I woke up today feeling like I used to,
the way I always have when I lock the door behind me,
keeping the others out, and myself shut in.

I guess I'm no good at letting people shack up in my home.
I let them bump the furniture,
draw on walls,
and break vases like vital organs
because father taught me
that's what hospitality is:

letting someone run you through and hurricane your heart,
even if just out of love,
until you finally sound out that big clanking echo of the end.

Maybe I'm the well that said "Trust me,
I am bottomless and infinite,
so come drink in me.
You will never pull me dry,"

because I wanted so much for this to be true,
when instead I should have warned
of the finite nature of all space,
and all things capable,

but that's the other thing about wells:
they don't have a voice.