Whittle me.

Hack me from my tree and rip off my stems.

Tear my limbs, hear my cry, wrench my roots from the soil.

See where I begin,

See where you saw my end.

Trace the ridges and valleys left from the weather in my skin.

Do they feel like yours?

The carvings you make of yourself are intimate enough,

Deep and winding, sprawling across you

And now me.

Why vandalize me?

Why vandalize yourself?

Why chisel the “graciously” chosen?

Run your nails down me (us) to feel the squirm,

Rake them into my (our) skin and leave your mark.

I (We) can’t stop this.

I’ve never known such torture filled pleasure.

The pleasure coming from being of use

The torture coming from knowing you had already done far worse.

Peel my bark-like flesh, hardened from time and people I’ve called “mine”.

Hollow my trunk

Sign your initial

Scrape and scar the tissue beneath.

I fumble and fall as I stare at you stall,

My body

My mind

My soul

Tossed around with the care of a spoiled child.

Aimless and archless.

What will you make of me?

Will you frame me?

Will you polish my damages?

Plaster me on a wall?

Stick me on your desk?

Shave me into nothing at all?

The leaves, which you stole, are scattered in the air I will never get to breathe again.

My air is now you.

Remember that when you’re carving.

Because bark is less precious than skin.