The Tree That Never Gave Up

I only pretended I loved you so you would struggle to escape from my constricting grip, only to trip over a rock and break your nose. I only pretended I wanted to play with you so I could "accidentally" send you plummeting out of my canopy, plunging headfirst into a festering festival of rejected apples. Welcome home. You may wish to amuse yourself with the notion that I am "The Giving Tree", a bottle of concentrated kindness that never runs out, a cutting board that heals its scratches after each knife attack. Observe how the branch on the front cover is perfectly poised to tear out your hair, just like when you tore out my leaves to make your hollow head look more important. I don't know if you noticed on your first innocent reading that I tilt as you eagerly scramble up my trunk; you may reassure yourself that I am only trying to make the climb easier, but the truth will crush you as I gleefully catapult you into the street. Oh yes, I almost forgot: remember when I kindly offered you my trunk so you could wander the seas in bliss? You probably didn't notice the anchor I gave you in the form of a stray twig, which would eventually catch on some seaweed near an unnoticed, unloved island and leave you there, contemplating your happiness.