I heard you say that you enjoy the thought that the little ripped paper that you’re pouring your words on was once the tree in the branches of which I used to loose myself.
Isn’t that cruel of you? To take my favorite tree away from me. Especially now, when I am grown up and in desperate need to climb on it. To loose myself amongst the branches again.
And you enjoy owning a little part of it. A little part of me. And touring it up so you can pour words on top of it. Words that you never find the strength to pronounce. Torn pieces that you never send.
So I am left here without a piece. Without branches. With no leafs. Without words. Treeless.
Isn’t that cruel of you?