I'm eight and looking at the willow tree feels like a promise.

Here is the repeated image of a lover destroyed
I have a tendency of grappling onto words long after they’ve left my safety. When I was eight I told my mother I wanted to be buried in the cemetery under the willow tree and her gaze felt like burning embers ; I’m eight, and I don’t know what death is.

I'm eight and looking at the willow tree feels like a promise.

I cry a little more, I smile a little more; feelings leave me empty like hollow bones. I swing my axe and miss; I swing again, and my hands are red, maybe cutting my name off will leave me with a little bit of regret in my body. But I’m numb and my skin feels like crumbling dust. I'm numb, and I paint with more red than usual and in my temporary lapse of judgement I want to live to make red corpses tinged with my blood because it makes mother look at me with reverence (or is it hatred I can't tell) I read my Richard Siken and his words feel bitter like chalk, I look at the willow tree and my hands are a sickly red.
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Inspiration from this poem:
Hello darling, sorry about that.
Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we
lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell
and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.
Especially that, but I should have known.
You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together
~Richard Siken