metaphorgirl

i am a dead tree,

rotten from the inside out,

my intestines hallowed by insects,

struggling to not be easily swayed,

blistered by the winter winds,

tender in the harshest ways,

he pushes and pulls,

testing my strength.

she is the wood-worker,

conquering mother earth,

she braces against the odds,

to her, i am not rotten nor useless,

to her, i have purpose—

i am uprooted,

harvested,

gutted,

resurrected.

she twists and bends

at my weak spots,

reminds me that it only hurts for a moment;

braided,

woven,

strengthened.

to her, i have always been

beautiful,

transformational.

to me, she has always been

the beginning,

the start of something new;

where the dark starts to fade,

and the light comes in…

dawn.