my hands are palm trees

My knees are perforated from falling too much,

but I’m thankful that the blood watered the roots of my growth.

And although there are dotted lines to cut on now,

no knife, no mental torment is sharp enough to split my kneecaps

from their long tree stumps.

Grounded and ready to sprout cherry blossoms from my twigs.

I stretch my hands out into palm trees,

my hair hangs low like a willow trying to defend the insects

that fester in the soil underneath her.

I imagine being a lemon tree in someone’s wedding,

bright and bubbly

as a sermon spreads into the ears of the crowd.

I am a redwood, regrowing with every fallen branch.