Creative

Pinecones

18 July 2017
::

I could fit a whole pinecone in my chest.
Force it between my ribs and spine
all its scales piercing my skin
from outside in
the pain still wouldn’t match you.
Sometimes,
I want to burn it down to dust
a forest swept from our memories,
The only trees standing
fake, in the company of others.
We no longer smell natural.
I still feel you in every branch I touch
against my fingers and hands,
(Was I not tall enough for your standards?
Fuck you, you know
I’m scared of the dark)
I’m constantly trapped in the dead of us.
I wish
we could crumple down to compost, and
start again.
Instead, here I am.
Choking on chip bark memories.