i was too tender and well-meaning in my youth to understand why each petal plucked from a flower felt so powerful. the way it tugged, the resistance. like a stop sign colored in a light rose pink. it was softly forbidden, you weren’t supposed to do it — but it wasn’t impossible. i didn’t understand power, but i felt it that day.
the flower was my first conquest. i made confetti of anything i could get my hands on — leaves, fruit, toys — i couldn’t stand to see anything whole. to the untrained eye, i was just messy and curious. i was, and i am.
but somewhere along the way, i was the one that was ripped to shreds. someone felt that power i did in my mom’s garden and graduated to people. so did i.
and i so wish i could say i cascaded softly to the ground with a whisper like a petal and not a resounding thud that echoed in the bottom of every bottle of alcohol i drank, in the cramped back of cars of strangers, at the edge of the pitch roof of my house. i wish i had that much grace.
i now understand how the flower petals, the pieces of fruit, the dolls without heads or arms must have felt — to be unwilling participants of a mosaic that didn’t even make a very pretty picture.
but at least i’m sharp if you dare to pick me up and put me on your wall.
