Willow

Nighttime swallows me as the rhythmic chirping of insects lulls me to sleep. The moon bathes me in its light, guarding me from harm, from the deepest darkness of the night. I rest under a willow tree; we both weep tonight.

The tree's bark is riddled with holes and stripped of bark, leaving naked, vulnerable patches of the tree's flesh. Many of its branches hang unliving and brown. In somber moonlight, I look upon my own flesh. Scars and bruises splotchily cover my body like a suit of armor forged from alcoholism and neglect. My eyes meet a tear in my blouse. A scar across my chest is revealed.

Tears well up in my eyes; I remember the searing pains once again - the fine slice of a blade through flesh, the lash of a whip along my spine - it all rushes back. I shut my eyes and contort a scream into an agonized moan. Vivid memories flood my mind like a sanguine river. I cannot bear it; my limbs buckle. I collapse and desperately gasp for breath as two streams of tears run from my eyes to the ground.

Seconds, or perhaps hours later, the emotions subside. The flashbacks ebb. My chest rises and falls like the tide of a peaceful ocean. I remember my mother, father, and family. I remembered more scars, more pain. Then, I remembered today.

Today, I escaped. Today, I finally broke free of my prison. I broke free of entrapment. I fled the losing battle that I've fought my whole life. But I still bear the cuffs and chains of imprisonment; I still wear the scars of war like medals of shame, of misfortune, of injustice.

Wounded, weeping, and weary, but alive: just like this willow.