The forest whispers

I always thought whispering forests were a metaphor. I was wrong. Now I am terrified all the time, I can’t block out the sounds. They whisper to me, they scream. The grass doesn’t rustle, it murmurs. It murmurs my name. It recites my wrongs, the evil things I have done. The flowers shriek my transgressions and I cannot get away. If I run, I am pursued. I cannot eat, the vegetables condemn me. I cannot live here. I cannot live. It wasn’t my fault, not really, but the trees don’t know listen. They are judge and jury.

They are wrong.