misinterpreted, red and yellow.

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.