Note To Self

It's a peculiar knife you've wielded.
You've come at a thousand wrongs
done you.

But while you've whittled at the hurts,
what of the harms
you've done?

You've abraded the initials
carved into your trunk.
Yet you've left untouched
the countless leaves shading
your transgressions.

When the target
is the unwept wounds you've made
where is your righteous aim?