I’m like an old oak tree in the city centre with roots growing toward the side of the road
A site for the children to play under, and the old to appreciate its history
But the city leader would rather have me cut down, chop me off at the knees
Cos to the citizens I might be a fun old oak, but to the leaders I am a troubling tree
Did you count my rings when you bled me, when you cut me off like a useless piece of wool attached to a cloth?
Did you try to figure out where it hurt me the most, when you chopped off my branches?
Frail, sitting calmly by the way side until you decided being a whole piece was not something I was worth
You decided I was a felon with a broken record so you shattered my wood and left me in a dead pool like Francis
Baby, this is to you! Did you think about my fears when you decided to haunt them?
What even they were afraid of? Cos it seems like you did.
It seems like you sought out the perfect way to end this old oak tree and mastered the art.
And cut me where I would feel all the pains but no sympathy because I wouldn’t bleed.
I figure now that the first hello I said to you was my welcome to hell
My introduction into my biggest horrible night mares
That stare, that fucking smile, that “hi, are you free tonight? I was hoping you’d show me how to understand something I was taught in class”
That fucking deceptive smile, that haha, you’re funny and all the fucking stares that caught me unawares
I wish I could say “fuck you, no, I’m busy, please meet someone else”
Then maybe I would not have these tears dropping from my brown eyes
Yes, brown; that’s how you claimed to prefer your men until I saw you meeting someone else
Maybe if I had smiled back and not said hi, this old oak tree would not have been cut by surprise
Last night you told me I was paranoid, I was sitting in front of my PC writing a heartbreak piece
Just like I always do just before I get one, just like I was done doing the first time I met you
You called me paranoid and told me you would never hurt me or give me a heartbreak.
So why the fuck am I cut open in the streets with a knife that is most certainly yours, and you’re there crying, with fucking tears in your eyes like I upset you?
If I had a knife or a gun or a broken bottle, I would stab you until your heart stopped, until my hurt ceased, until my heart scars were gone;
But that would be stupid, that would then make you a healer
My words are my only trigger, yet here I am keeping them to myself like a misplaced treasure; see, I am hurt with every myofibril of my heart, yet, I love you with all of it,
Because you see, the difference between me and you is I stupidly fell, like an old oak tree, for you, and I am not a killer.