My heart is silent,
I tremble at this revelation.

Veins pump soundlessly,
and carry dull blood
to my arms and legs
that move me wearily
up the tree.

My anxiety has once again
gotten the best of me,
and now all I can do
is hide.
I sit uncomfortably in dead branches
that are uncushioned by leaves.   

I want to dissociate
because thinking hurts too much.

I can’t help them,
the accusations that shoot
into my brain like needles:

I think of every hello
I’ve never answered,
or the bridges I’ve burned,
because drifting apart slowly
makes me feel blurry.
But most of all,
for not being better.

Soon the sun goes down,
and the stars step out
from behind a black curtain.
They twinkle the way
a lover winks to you
from across the street.

Off a branch
not far from me,
a small acorn drops
slowly through the air,
and rolls onto the dirt.

I lose my frown
and unsquint my eyes,
and I decide to climb down
to plant it
where it could grow.