I am a hollowed out tree during mid winter’s rage; scrawny and unappealing. My branches quiver and shake from the anxiety of life's passing. They speak amongst themselves “It’s so much prettier when alive.”
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry my bones are cracked and worn. One gentle touch and they snap because past winters have left me fragile. I’m sorry my silence is harsh and eerie. I’ve grown under the rule “speak only when spoken to” and no one really cares to stop and really talk. It doesn’t matter though. One gust of wind from another's mouth causes me to topple down, for I’m fearful of screaming rage.
I’m sorry I cannot provide beauty for your longing eyes to gaze upon anymore. I never asked for darkness’ cold embrace, but it’s the only comfort I know.
I’m sorry.