The air is a raw thing against my skin
and I feel the forest aching, sore under my feet.
It pulses through me, how wrong the trees feel, but they don’t abandon me to this.
They go on aching,
Pulling what they can of this poison from my body back into their roots
until the underbrush is built of my own aching particles,
whispering on the wind that this part is over, whispering: “over, over, over…”
so soft I almost don’t hear it over your deafening absence.
Wrapping myself in branches like blankets,
we are raw, the forest and I.
We mourn together,
the forest and I
AI interpretation by Maggs Rose Quartz Chaos