Unfinished

You don't see it but I feel like a tree.
Little by little, you whittle me.

Every day you keep me at bay,
or when you keep my feelings at arm's length,
you carve little scars.

Every day you pay me visits
but you tell me always of these foreign shrubs
blooming far beyond your reach -
you tell me of your love of things I can't be.

I grow, but you'll see:
less and less I will be able to shade you,
and your ways will wear at me,
broken branch, broken leaves.

Or maybe
is it something else you want of me?
A chiseled statue? A bed? A home?
Is this why you work away,
chopping away what I don't need?

I don't know. But I can see in me
the lines where my flesh breaks
scattered all over me.