I heard rumors of you blooming into the tallest tree.
I raised you from a seed, I watered you with my sweat, and gave you sunlight from my sin. You are a product of my effort.
I made you who you are, but I know that you're thankful. And God has great plans for you, but I pray my words won't have to grace your ears again...
(what have I become. but a monument to the things that I hate most; the things that I can't stand. what if I would die? Where would I wake up? Wrapped up in your arms? Or still holding your hand?)