Pruning

By Tristan Arteel 

I know when the blades fall  
they will not land on my neck.
The people next to me will kneel first 
blood pooling around their legs. 
I will watch as the love I have given  
is ripped away by hands that do not understand 
the beauty of what they remove. 
Like weeds they will take away the misunderstood 
and the unwanted 
until their garden has lost its light. 
I am cursed with a desirable color 
fitting the garden as long as I am silent.