I once walked the world
with open arms,
my hands stretched w i d e like branches.
a canopy to shelter the lost.
a refuge for the clumsy and blind.
But the world pressed too hard,
too often,
and my leaves tore beneath its careless weight.
So I became the thorn instead.
Soft wood splintered,
sap dried
to amber shields,
and the shade I offered
withered.
Now my arms are briars,
worn close to my chest,
curled into a hedge
the foolish do not cross.
The world is full of stumbling fools,
drunken moths crashing into flames
of their own kindling.
They scorch themselves
on their own sparks,
and still, they scream at the fire
as though it were cruel
for burning.
I watch them now
from a quiet distance,
my roots deep, my bark hardened,
knowing no vine will wrap around me
without bleeding.
It is not hatred that keeps me,
but weariness—
the wisdom to know
that the soft are devoured
by the teeth of the indifferent.
The world does not deserve my kindness.
It spills its recklessness
like broken wine,
drenching the soil in its waste,
and waits for hands to clean it.
But I have burned those hands
to ash and bone.
Now I walk with thorns in my shadow,
each step a warning,
each word a needle
laced with restraint.
Let the world tear itself apart.
I am no longer here
to sew its seams.
The world bites without thinking,
and I will not be chewed.
