I've seen stolen kisses wrapped in bundles of heat and desire. I've seen utter grief and endless snotty tears. I've watched as the elderly are buried beneath the same green, lush grass they once ran through as children. I've felt the scraping of blades against my bark, leaving marks engraved in my skin. Over and over until I was bare no more, simply a canvas for others to claim. I began to see my friends beside me get stripped and chopped of their once fruitful lives. And as I listened to the wind, so sweet and chilling, the sound was drained of its pure whispers- replaced by the heavy thump and banging of machinery. As my branches slumped and time went on, cities grew around me. The owls and rodents who once found refuge in my tall, bulky wood fled. In that moment, I was no longer a tree of beauty. I was bound by my roots, acting as a chain to a place I no longer belonged. To a place full of bustling and hurtful humans, ones who threw rubbish at my feet. In that moment, I became an outlander on my own land. When the humans arrived next, the same familiar feeling of a blade to my bark, too, came. Except they swung this heavy blade. Then I swayed, and I swayed until my leaves hit the ground. Silent tears came from my wood as thick white sap escaped from my wounds. But it wasn't a feeling of sadness. No, it was the first time in 200 years I'd felt relief. I could finally be put out of my never-ending misery. Maybe I'd end up built into someone's house, or sucked as a child licked their popsicle, or maybe I would become the hilt of the same axe used to rid me of my roots. Nonetheless, I was longer bound.