Dearest daughter.
Seed planted at twelve,
spiralling, sprawling.
Fourteen's springtime; sprouting,
while toiled and soiled,
till twenty's plenty.

The precious peers arrive,
cans in one, fertiliser in the other.
You plead, you beg,
nothing but stilted silence
escapes.
Expansion you cannot take.
Not for this inner tree of black,
where nothing but anguish falls.