The Tree Behind My House
When my heart aches,
Like a monster crawled in,
With its claws piercing into my soul,
And I just want to cry,
I run to my tree.
When the other kids
Run around laughing at me,
Like a dark tornado,
Throwing mean words at my frail body,
I run to my tree.
When my fists clench into two balls,
Until they turn red and white,
And my nails leave four marks in my palm,
As the other kids yell,
“She’s gonna cry!”
I run to my tree.
My tree sits like a loyal dog,
Waiting for me patiently,
As my tired feet sprint towards it,
My heavy eyes filled with salty tears.
My tree has looming branches,
Filled with golden leaves,
Speckled with splotches of brown.
It’s like two protective doors,
For when I’m gloomy,
It seals me from the rest of society.
Inside those golden doors,
There’s no more monsters,
No more laughter that pierces the soul,
No more tornados of darkness.
There,
The cool wind tickles my face,
The chirping birds sing to me,
The leaves shuffle, as if applauding me.
There,
I cry.