The Forest and Me

I don't think people know what I mean when I say “the forest is my second home, my family.” I don't think they’ve ever sat on a mossy log sandwiched between snowy hemlocks making a cave protecting themselves from the winds of anxieties––blowing in one ear but never to come out the other. Tucked in a small trinket box among my heart, a bellowing hole with no start.

I don't think people know what I mean when I say “I’m going outside.” A simple wood fort is what they see, not me. Because when I go outside there's a different part of me no one can see. The forest is my tissue, my way to decompress. It blankets over me; it is my dress. 

Only the foxes and rabbits around me see the real me.

It’s much later now you see. The world has turned its back on me, and faced my anxiety, my home has been taken away from me. Now no one will know how it feels to be really free.

Now I’m off to see an old friend of mine who happens to be right beside me. My old second home, my old family.
Here I sit on the same log today.

My snowglobe and me.