I am a weed. They say I am strong, but I do not aim to be so. I don’t aim to be anything. I’m just here.
My roots are tenacious. They cling to the soil, dig deep. Something in my backbone doesn’t want to die. I don’t think about it, it’s just ingrained in me.
Some weeds have flowers. I have my moments too. Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I have good days. On those days, my flowers bloom. They turn towards the sun, and people say, “Wow, how beautiful for a weed.” Some days my flowers are gone, ripped off my stalk like so much trash. I am, after all, just a weed.
I keep growing. My roots are deep. Without direction, my backbone fights to find the light.
They don’t tell me I’m strong like this is a gift. My strength can be a curse, to them and to me. Sometimes I don’t want to find the sun. Sometimes, I would rather lie down and sleep. I envy those hot house plants, the Fragile ones, the ones that fall apart under any adversity. On those days, my strength is a weakness. On those days, I curse that I live.
They tell me I’m strong, but I am just a weed. Strength is nothing to me.
Miranda’s Blog: Strong