I had a redwood in my chest

That desperately needed watering,

But you were a storm,

And only broke my branches.

I got an arrow engraved in my skin

To remind me to keep going,

But it kept shooting at you.

And you,

You were the Sears tower,

You couldn’t be reached.

My arrow shot at your glass windows,

Only to be bent

And rebounded back to me,

Plunging through my barren chest,

The pain resonating the naked trees

That were my veins.

The soil of my skin,

No longer rich.

The memory of your Jupiter,

The heroin that was your lips,

Ate away at my bark like a parasite.

This redwood was dying,

And you could've saved it.

You left it deserted for four months.

You watered the willow tree instead,

Because its roots were graceful,

And mine were too immense.

You allowed this tree,

Nearing death,

To believe that it was unworthy,

And lonely.

You allowed the branches to keep breaking,

You allowed me to go back

Into the unwavering shadows

Of crows, blood,

The scar that is myself.

You see,

You can’t plant a seed in my heart,

And not expect it to metamorphisize to 379 feet.

We could have created a forest,

But instead,

You’ll be known

As the one who killed the redwood.

-K.H.