Men try to mend my wounds by spewing lines like "But you're too pretty to be sad"
as if I asked for this.
They try and try again,
saving is in their culture.
Chivalry is etched in them like a childhood scar
Their forests are filled
with knights on white horses
as they've been taught.
Mine are not.
My woods reak of matted down blankets from days without movement.
They feel like exhaustion.
Sometimes you can even hear the sound of their roots being pulled
right out of the ground
that shrieking sound will leave you
Awake for days.
"too pretty to be sad" will not place these rotten roots in graves.
My trees have aged much faster than theirs, 21 years old, bending too easily with the wind.
as it howls, they cower,
I wonder when they will break
and who will be there to hear them.
Because sometimes I feel that people only like to look at my flowers,
and not bear what they have to offer, what they would say. Those sounds would scare them away. Sometimes I feel that people only like to look at my leaves.
They're too pretty to die, anyway.