I’ll follow you to the very edge
and if you push me down,
I’ll pull you to the earth with me
and stick you in the ground.
You might become a flower,
Though, more likely, you’ll be a weed
for you are lacking in the goods
that a flower would surely need.
I, however, will be the tree
you’ll look up to til forever
the constant reminder of all your faults,
the relic of a sad endeavor.
You will be my blackened token,
misspent youth upon the ledge.
I’ll forever hate myself
for following you to the edge.