What is there to believe?
Your word against mine.
Saying you're sorry is the least,
So I ambled my way to the hanging tree.
Stories are told from one side;
The others get relinquished in time.
No one knows my truth-
Just the limbs that carry the words loose.
Age is a number, depicted by infinity.
If your mind could wander, would you go to a new vicinity?
Somewhere warm and safe.
Would there still be a tree in which I could cave?
In that new place will my wrist feel tight?
In that safe space will my body roam your mind?
'Cause in that sacred place nothing is calm.
I'll climb up the tree while the bark pinches my palms.
You left me no hope;
No proclamations left to speak.
In your paradise of evil,
Life is a rope made for the tree.
You hold your eyes on me,
And never once will they leave.
You from the ground,
Me climbing above you, up the hanging tree.
I bet my skirt looked nice,
But from that angle could you truly see?
It's only ever what's inside,
Not the hours I spent sewing the fleece.
I'll "pose" on the limb, and let my legs swing.
My fear is in my chest as the birds chirp and sing.
My secrets make a rope, alongside your burden.
I'll tie it to my throat, and maybe then you'll stop hurting.
But is this about you, or is it about me?
My story or yours, to declare the least.
You'll get away, and no one will learn the truth.
And I'll sway in the breeze-
Desiring that my secrets end you.
