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