Nature Wasn't Taught Tenderness

On weak legs, she renounced her tomorrow. It was late – the party had danced on like a drawn-out laugh. It was breathless, and her sides ached, she felt like she could challenge anything. Stumbling into her car was almost mindless.

It was four in the morning, there was no one there to see her swerve sharply across the road. It was almost inevitable; she went too far off the shoulder - hit a pole the wrong way - and then the car danced too.

She flew through the window.

Arches of trees crowded her vision - the waving branches like arms beckoning to her, cajoling her with reassurances that they’d catch her in their embrace – in that second before everything went black. They did capture her, but the act was not gentle, nor soft, nor kind. They pierced right through her, and it was the only way they knew how.