feeling wounds in bark

In the forest I found a tree with a few hatchet marks in the bark and felt their lines and how they've scarred over with my finger tips.
Finger tips brush over lips and feel the ridges of their bark.
Parting lips expose ivory teeth in the dark pine wood of my memory.
Someone hit this tree only a few times with a hatchet. Why?
Lonely blade swings in the year my dad first kissed my mom.
Someone that looked just like me but wearing the old and cool clothes of the period (atleast nostalgically) struck the tree with a hatchet just a few times and then stopped and moved along.

Retreating to you my dark pine wood rooms with my palms full of ridged bark that I can squeeze and crush and smell.
Crumble away crushed bark and fertilize my bed covers.
Crumble away scar tissue and fertilize my abyss.