A season.

It’s easy to uproot a sprig, as it has not matured. But how long will it take to remove a tree whose roots have intertwined with my skin, my heart, and my emotions?

When not even the flames of anger can remove them without leaving scars and ashes in the shape of veins. When time is the only answer, and the process is slow, like tan lines that takes months to fade, yet these invisible chains could even take years and again I am afraid.

My ground has yet again been poisoned and not even flowers will grow for a season, like a winter hibernation but in the spring uncertainty will again give way to courage like the flowers that turn to the dawn and reach up into the glorious rays of light.

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