The Seeds of Weeds
This is a love note.
These loves — from childhood to now, boys and girls, men and women — have pulled from me the ugliest and most beautiful parts. All that I’ve longed for, they have gifted to me, by coming just as they are.
In chronological order:
a gentle heart, showing me the foundations of unrealized creation with enthusiastic yet amateur instruction;
spinning in the living room to improvised songs, refilling the tanks of our ecstasy;
the peek into the mystic dimension, its infinite possibilities, whispered between chubby rosy cheeks, fairy teacups sprouting from the forest floor;
the gentle awe radiating from that sweet blonde boy, empowering me to manipulate the world in our favor, and the first time I learned of the devastation I can cause;
the pushing and pulling, taunting and caressing of me and him, him and her, testing the bounds of repulsion and adoration, love and judgement;
the spontaneity and security of unconditional acceptance enforced by sleepless nights, aimless bike rides, ridiculous arguments, and exploring side-by-side the trauma of adolescence;
a boy of soft white curls and a heart so clear, to experience the divine gift of first love, to awaken by the morning breeze’s kiss and to sleep by the night sky’s distant song;
the taste of true desire instigated by a rebel’s resistance, the chase, the lust for the ever-after, the dive into all the unknowns, the saltiest heartbreak, ichingly raw;
captivated by an ocean’s song played by the one that I see in every flower, and a stollen kiss that brought me back to the present;
the first man, who could emit love through a handshake, making me believe I could harness the world, adoring me through open space, enabling me to try for anything;
the direct, waiting stare from under a dark thick flap of bangs, asking me what I really mean;
being tugged by a tiny hand and big eyes that make me wonder if I really do have all the answers;
the walks amongst the poppies that allowed me to see my sweetness for the first time, the gift of the afternoon’s tears as the leaves rustle overhead;
a flash of bright light skipping down the hall, reminding me that none of this is serious.
The seeds of weeds.