I look like I have a forest in my eyes
and that’s because I do; many people have
ventured inside them, breaking off pieces of
themselves to serve as a bread crumb trail to
escape my wood if needed. My thicket has
swallowed man after man after woman and I
have so many fragments of others’ hearts inside
of me I can’t tell which roots in the soil are mine
and which are theirs.
There’s a creek that runs down the center of my
body and all the water within it has been gulped
down by thirsty fingers. No amount of rain could
ever refill what was once flowing generously there.
As I’ve grown into my limbs and leaves I’ve noticed
that people have a tendency to drop matches among
my dying parts; quick to ignite and burn away any
hopes I have of blooming again there.
Lately, I’ve been mistaken for a broad expanse of
damaged land, and I’ve not the courage to tell anyone
that I am more than my scorched bark.