Things They Take Away

I know that his relations were projections of my own perversions,
that her assessments were figments of my own imagination.
I know I needed to scream, “No,” at all given moments,
and that hoops to jump through were black and white though changing every day.

I know that boys own the language, and smiles mean, “Come hither,”
that eye contact means, “I promise,” and that what I mean means nothing.
I know my words are confusing, my affection is toxic, 
my friendship seducing, and that my heart is destructive.
I know that they can’t help their love, and that on connection, I should give up
and wrap my strengths and eyelashes in something wet and cold.

But I know that he moved on 
without me making him respect his own boundaries, which were never my own.
I knew I was never responsible for what I couldn’t do.

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The Tree

There’s a tree which grows on the side of the road.
It stands not alone, nor hidden at the heart of an enchantied woodland.
Ordinary and unassuming, it meekly joins the scattered foliage dotting the local park.

Pass this plant on your trek to work, and notice how you don’t notice it at all.
Listen as it asks no attention of you. Feel the stagnant air as the modest tree
makes no attempt to draw you in. Its aura keeps to itself, taking only the space that its bark requires.

Pass the tree again, however, as you head back home to the warmth of blankets,
the delight and safety of lying down. Pass the tree when the night has fallen, when the sun itself has fallen too.

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