Women Are Flowers
"Women are flowers, men are plants."
Because men are built to withstand hardship, and withstand the weathering caused by time on youth, strength, vitality. Women are smaller; they are built to last a minute in the bat of an eyelash, and then fade. Women decay like flowers, because women are flowers and men are trees.
I sit at the altar and pray. The fruits we put out everyday are meant for otherworldy hands of ancestors, spirits that have surpassed me by lifetimes, and who retain no trace on the world I exist in, that I care about or feel around me.
I don't believe in God but I believe in Love. The love that can allow me to transcend flowerhood; the love that waits, its ghostly hands beckoning the untouched fruit. I lay the bowl of fresh rambutans, papaya, sapodilla, mangostreen, at my feet. I lay me down beside it, and watch it decompose. The fleshy skin wrinkles, dries and slips off the fruit. See how it sheds its plumpness, its softness. I sit and watch myself, like fruit, wrinkle, dry and slip away. The process of my growth has been watching fruit decay as it sits in front of me, untouched. The smoke clears from the incense, and I am still here waiting.
I am a seal to be broken; I am that, or nothing at all.
Because men are built to withstand hardship, and withstand the weathering caused by time on youth, strength, vitality. Women are smaller; they are built to last a minute in the bat of an eyelash, and then fade. Women decay like flowers, because women are flowers and men are trees.
I sit at the altar and pray. The fruits we put out everyday are meant for otherworldy hands of ancestors, spirits that have surpassed me by lifetimes, and who retain no trace on the world I exist in, that I care about or feel around me.
I don't believe in God but I believe in Love. The love that can allow me to transcend flowerhood; the love that waits, its ghostly hands beckoning the untouched fruit. I lay the bowl of fresh rambutans, papaya, sapodilla, mangostreen, at my feet. I lay me down beside it, and watch it decompose. The fleshy skin wrinkles, dries and slips off the fruit. See how it sheds its plumpness, its softness. I sit and watch myself, like fruit, wrinkle, dry and slip away. The process of my growth has been watching fruit decay as it sits in front of me, untouched. The smoke clears from the incense, and I am still here waiting.
I am a seal to be broken; I am that, or nothing at all.
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