Little flowers.

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

No respect

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.


Recently though,

I’ve being trying to do away my old ways of reasoning

And see these weeds

Sorry, flowers

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 beingsĀ are the most beautiful flowers that ever grew.


Poet amongst other things

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