When describing myself to others
I often refer to myself as a tree.
I am not majestic like the willow.
Or unique like the palm.

I am the biggest oak you’ve ever seen.
I am strong, confident, resistant.
I am the tree that stood high despite the hurricanes, tornados, and floods.

The problem is that I am, in fact, a tree.
My skin is not soft. It’s is harsh
like the wooden armor surrounding me.
It takes an axe to cut through these layers.

Despite my efforts, I cannot help
But to hold onto the weapons that have attempted to bring me down.
My carcass refuses to release after the assaults.

Instead of letting go and healing my wounds,
I keep the daggers until a new layer confines the evidence of your presence.
To remind me of the lesson I should not have had to learn.

I call them lessons but they are more like disappointments.
Locked into my body, to keep me aware of the danger of mankind.

I am aware that these keep-sakes are not harmless.
But losing the integrity of this body is worth it, if it creates the façade that I am stronger than you.

My leaves may fall
Limbs collapse.
But still, after I am made hallow from the disease underneath the beauty of my strength.
I will still be standing. All weapons intact.

Sometimes, pretending that I am a tree,
Is a better reality,
Than realizing that as a human,
I shouldn’t be.