Caverns In Summer Are Black.

When the tire swing collapsed from the weight of the rain,
I think that's when we knew I was unhappy,
And wanted trimmed branches to keep the leaves out of my hair.
How often did we find a birds nest?
Or lady bugs crawling over my daisies?
I killed a walking stick once on accident,
And someone got so mad, I slept in the hall that night.
Now that it's Spring on the rise,
I think about the ways it makes me helpless.
I once imagined growing up to be beautiful.
I'm almost there but I've got some bad scars
That no one is trying to see past here.
You trace them with your fingertips,
Making me squirm like the worms after the rain.
The rope was a thread back then, right?