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she takes pieces

of me, little by little

little bites

sinking into old wounds every time

and I let her

because just like the trees open their hands to the snow

I do love the idea of dying slowly

loved and afraid and being told

you have nowhere else to go

open the door slow,

take what you need and leave a trail

for me to follow

and one day, most likely in the early Spring

I will crawl out

like a timid little thing

and your footprints would have been suffocated

by the roots of those trees that were

waiting, waiting for me to let go of you

and pick up all those old pieces

that had grown into someone new.

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