I wish I was a weed sometimes.
As I go to bed every night I pass by some weeds. Almost a foot in height, they surpass the other more beautiful flora in our backyard. Sometimes I feel like an orchid; I’d like to believe I’m beautiful but in reality I’m more effort for little reward. I wish I was a weed.
Despite the fact that no one likes them, despite their dowdy appearance and their inconvenience, I wish I was a weed.
I wish I broke my way through the cracks of a concrete world no matter how much people tried to keep me down. I wish I found my way through to the darkest of places, through the most forsaken of circumstances, and somehow thrived and grew into the greatest version of myself. And, when someone tried to end me down, not only would I give them a fight to the end, I would simply come back, just as strong and just as tall for centuries to come.