I felt the branches in my chest – as they grow around my heart, separating it from my feelings. Protecting it from the storms. Making the world see only the glimpse of me, hidden behind the intricate sculpture made of boughs.
I knew they were there, roots of the trembling willows, of pale birches, spread under my skin like yggdrasil, pulsing with lifeblood in my veins.
I grew leaves in my core, copper and crimson, like the setting sun, a touch of vermillion season, calm like a winter pond. They breathed for me – I felt the scent of the fresh soil after the rain.
I thought that I needed the tree.
And I needed it.
But I don’t want branches in my chest anymore, no cages made of roots.
The woods call me from outside, wounds heal, slowly; a time between autumn and spring. Between winter and the summer.
I am running into the grove. Barefoot and free. With wings spread behind me – a leaf and a butterfly.