These ones that germinate on my skin like it’s fertile soil
They seem to be useful somehow
But they seem like weeds to me
I’ve been pulling them out for as long as I can remember
Thinking of ways to, maybe, you know,
“damage” the soil they grow so clueless on.
Decorating this garden with absolutely no warning
Or regard for the owner
I used to stare in disgust at how they managed to do so well
Leaving no stone unturned
Or in this case no skin uncovered.
I take up my weapons
Consisting of shaving sticks and oils and creams
Weed these foreign beings out of my garden
Each time hoping their return wouldn’t be as quick
But I guess my prayers were lost on infertile grounds
Because they returned every single time
With new friends it seemed
“We’ve come to keep you company, beautify your garden” they screamed
They’re just as intense as me.
I’ve being trying to do away my old ways of reasoning
And see these weeds
For what they really are
I am trying to love them
No, trying to reciprocate their love for me
I am trying to accept these weeds as flowers
Tending to them like my body is truly a garden
And these foreign beings are the most beautiful flowers that ever grew.