He told me he loved my poetry
My prose, the arch in my back the ache in my chest
He loved it all, the hurt the ugliness the leeches in my brain
On paper he wrote our names in permanent marker
Buried it six feet deep below topsoil waiting for flowers to bloom
But the seeds did not take well, and he was much too impatient
When saplings took their sweet lazy time basking in springtime sun
He snapped off my branches with pliers and axe
To use me for kindling
For harsh winters to come
