you cherry picked our greatest moments,
the happy ones,
the love-filled ones,
the beautiful ones,
the exciting ones,
and gave them to me like presents.
there you stood,
basket in arm,
presenting only the freshest,
reddest,
most delicious cherries
out of all of the ones that grew on our tree.
i remember how you'd cut off
the rotten ones,
the ones of sadness,
the ones of anger,
the ones of fights,
torment,
confusion,
hurt.
you gave me
the best of the bunch,
saying that those were the only ones on the tree.
why could i still taste the bitter?
the sour?
of the rotten ones?
a number that grew by the day?
even if you buried them deep in the soil
to waste away forever,
they're still alive.
they still grow.
and that's why i chopped down our tree.