he's not a giving tree

When I was little my dad was, as many children see their fathers, superman. He was the strongest and the fastest, and the best chocolate chip cookie baker. He was my tree. Solid roots that grew deep into my ground and supported me against his trunk. A tarp of leaves to catch me when I fell, and limbs that reached down to me and guided me to the top of my potential. But as I continued to climb, his limbs started to bend, weakening under the strain. They stopped growing, and stretched to a point where they could no longer hold me. They're bark flaking off and disappearing into the fading leaves below. I continued to climb for as long as I could; convincing myself that everything was the same. That this tree had not changed. Until eventually I fell, tumbling into nothingness, where leaves should have been there to catch me. I had not given up. It wasn’t his fault. The weight of my body had grown to fast for him and he had done everything he could to hold me. Right? So I began climbing again. But sharp thorns poked out of the bark, piercing my flesh and tearing my skin. Short branches broke off at the slightest touch, leaving behind rough sticks that scratched my legs and tore my clothes. His trunk did not bend towards me the same way. It seemed to be twisting away from me in disgust, yet it begged me to continue climbing. I gripped each limb of the tree for as long as I could until my hands grew sweaty and slippery, and I found myself on the floor yet again. Yet, none of it was his fault. But what else was I supposed to do? How could he expect me to reach the top of such an impossible course? I’m still climbing.