The Well

What looks like a hole
is but a well
in which a child fell
a long time ago.

Where did the child go,
no one knows,
but they find a body
when the well overflows.

Every year around June,
in the thick of the monsoon
when the innards of the well
find utterance on the surface
they leave behind a carcass
of a boy who once was.

The body isn’t swollen,
the guts aren’t rotten
his mind looks comatose
he seems to have overdosed
on the darkness inside.

The stains of his blood,
have dried a deep black,
as though the monster inside
has scribbled on his heart
for the world to know
where not to go.

Every summer,
when the well dries up,
his writings shine bright.
Walls painted with blood,
glistening black with light,
say let me live tonight.