maybe it hurts to have your leaves turn golden and red.
maybe as we 'ooh and ah' the oak and maple suffer.
I shuffle moccasins through little crunchy skeletons, wishing I had my camera, knowing I wouldn't use it if I did.
thinking how many women are trees.
quietly suffering. accepting their duty to beauty.
misinterpreted, red and yellow.
will you find me a degree in saving trees from suffering?
saving them from objectification. rape. themselves.
because the undecided major has grown disheartening.
I need to be needed.
is there something wrong that no profession sounds more appealing than that of a social worker? is there something wrong that even the trees upset me?
yes, women are trees. overlooked, misinterpreted. sought for beauty.
we don't like to know trees have feelings. their weakness is uncomfortable.
'be pretty for me,' we say.
can you find me a degree to stop the trees from turning?
because today, Im only a girl in moccasins, carrying around a polaroid of a dog who died, doodling clouds over my notes, unknowingly making funny noises with my mouth, until I catch a passer's gaze, and squeeze my lips shut.
misinterpreted, red and yellow.
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5 comments:
YAY! You finally posted it! I love it. You are awesome.
i like this.
holy shit, taylor. this is really really raw and beautiful.
!!!
I realize that just because you're good at something doesn't mean it needs to be your major/career... BUT YOU ARE A FREAKISHLY TALENTED WRITER. You get better with every post. Even if you become a tree social worker, will you still write for me? Because if you don't, I'll miss it. A lot.
i echo mothmouth. at least the sentiment, if not the exact words ;)
if I were a tree, I would totally come to you for counseling.
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