Blindspot

Did you count my rings when you bled and cut me like a piece of wool attached to a cloth?
Did you figure out where best to hurt me, when you chopped off my branches?
Frail, by the way, you decided being whole was not something I was worth
You decided I was a felon and shattered my wood, left me in a dead pool like Francis
Did you think about my fears when you decided to haunt them?
What even they were afraid of? Cos it seems like you did.
Like you sought out the perfect way to end this oak tree, you mastered the art.
And cut me where I would feel pains but no sympathy because I wouldn’t bleed.
Maybe if I had smiled back and not said hi, this tree would not have been cut by surprise
You told me I was paranoid for writing a heartbreak piece.
Like I always do just before I get one.
You called me paranoid and told me you would never hurt me.
So why the fuck am I cut open in the streets with a knife that is most certainly yours?
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 I am keeping them to myself like a misplaced treasure,
Because you see, the difference us is, while you cut this old oak tree in the heart, I am not a killer.

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