Open to the air are rings measuring my past. It was you who told me once, I have depth. (Yes, you did say that.) A culmination of sense growing under thickened hide, a comforter of bark, a cloak of wood.
And you must remember, when the snow hit hardest, that one time, my skin, my essence, lost its protection, but, only for an instant. I internalized the cold, and for once I thought I was just like everyone else.
Normal. Like I could feel.
That’s when my lips showed their reddest. As if I bit my tongue, but I have no real fangs, as you once wished, and in regaining my composure, I drooled like a fool for you, my saliva drying upon me, leaving streaks upon that depth you said I had. For, I believed you. That was my mistake. And you believed yourself. That was also my mistake.
I’m not elusive enough to avoid cracks, internal or external. Laughter and tears are methods to expel your illusions. At this time, I could only ask you to see, to take the time to count my rings, for my shadows are a part of the sun. You will find we have a kindred compassion. You breathe me. I breathe you.
Your hand firm upon the chainsaw.