This life was a mistake
A choice I wasn't given
A story I didn't write

Prune the branches
The wounds weep
Sap like sorrow—
Grief without end

Sever the root
To bring relief
But the story withers—
And still, the ache remains

I'm at a crossroads
All I write is wrongs

  A rootless thing,
  Still reaching—
  I never asked for this

I am afraid of death’s kindness,
But life is no friend of mine

I'm not a poet
Don't speak the language

Death follows (a lantern-lit, moss-draped carriage)
Offers me a ride (so kind)
But it's not my time (for—for;
give me,
get me)

I'm not a tortured soul
Just trying to be understood

Please? Won't someone save me?
(Where—
oh
where—
am... I?)

I'm just writing on this journey to the end