the burning fig tree

Sylvia Plath would understand me.

The thoughts I have inside.

The secrets that I keep. 

The shame that I hide. 

The once abundant fig tree has turned rotten to the core. There are no more figs to bear. All that’s left is the musty stench of decaying wood.

I know my touch can ignite flames. Why leave the tree to die?

Is there hope? It’s irredeemable.

One touch, that’s all it’ll take.

I stand in the heat of the burning fire.

Watch the flames touch the surrounding trees, though the fire can’t seem to catch.

So I watch the only tree alight; the flames continue to rise.

They grow with every regret.

They grow. They grow.

The final life the tree is given is the one that makes it die.

No more figs. No more life.

And all I’m left with is a pile of ashes at my feet.