I begged for trees but was given candles.
My friends are promised early morning surprises,
A world that echoes their home,
While my mouth is dry,
Deprived of tasting days of chocolate.
And I wonder if being different is a punishment.
I am made of breaking bread and cold autumn nights.
Sweet honey drips in my veins,
My marrow is mixed with Saturday morning songs.
Heavy oaks line my driveway,
Steady roots continue to grow,
etched beneath the earth, into my skin.
Boys with years of dirt
caked under tough fingernails
Throw copper insults, littering around my feet.
But when I look into their bloodshot eyes I find
Silence on my lips.
Our world is one defined by pictures.
And the clicks of cameras do not do me justice.
I was molded of earthen clay
Scooped from old riverbank edges, heavy fingers
But can I change something that maybe
Is not mine to change at all?
In a world adorned with Christmas lights,
My eyes struggle to reflect a shallow flame.
The boys scratch me, tear at my skin,
hoping that I will become lodged under their dirty nails.
But I can feel the oak roots pound alongside my veins.
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