Crown Shyness

by Chelsea Stickle

And so the untold stories planted themselves in my nervous system. With every passing year their roots dug deeper into my psyche, pinching my nerves so they sparked at the slightest whisper of familiarity. The tiny trees inside me bore fruit that weighed me down. My skin had a greenish hue that briefly made people believe in my invisible illness, my inner struggles. My untold stories were swaying and brushing up against each other. The trees poked through my skin, little leaves scouting the terrain, reporting that the world was hostile but there was sunshine and wind and birds and other trees. My body wasn’t big enough for the mighty roots stretching through me, it wasn’t big enough for the trunks cracking my spine like firewood, it wasn’t big enough for the crowns too shy to touch, umbrellaing like it was the only decent thing to do with such trauma. The crowns left my veins. Circled, fanned and shaded my troubled head. I didn’t mind the change, only the looks when I left the house, like I was some freak of nature. My neighbor said I should see someone. "A doctor or an arborist?" I asked. She didn't answer, just shook her head like she couldn’t tolerate one more self-deprecating joke from one more woman. 

after Maya Angelou