I was once told that to grow a tree, one must cut it.
And that every created thing must be trained in order to be strong.
And my heart fought inside of me,
And my chest ached from the pulling while I chained my hands and set my gaze to things for which I had no love nor inclination.
And I grew in twisted ways, till my back would not straighten and my head hung low,
Till my hands atrophied and held no flourishes of words to bud out toward the open sky.
Till my chest grew tight and filled with holes that kept me up at night, with panicked sweats -
And now that I am grown,
And now that I am strong,
The model of successful treatment -
I wish I had know more of trees.
For I fear that I may be one, and have no idea how to be.