by Bella Melardi
I found a garden in my area. I would walk by every so often. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with
my boyfriend. In that garden, everything lived by its own logic. Nobody controlled anybody.
Stapelia flowers spat out a smell of decay. Calling to flies that lay maggots. Who feast upon their
creation. And still, among rot, the flowers bloom. It reminded me that there are countless ways to
exist. Existence is not a monolith. You can survive, smelling sweet or bitter. Life paths aren’t all
the same. I don’t have to be afraid of not fitting in. I don’t have to be written in a language that
doesn’t feel like home.
One morning, unable to sleep, I decided to take a walk around the garden. I picked a dandelion
that was sprouting in the foliage. I was alone, but I was okay. Strawberry guts spilling out of the
sunrise. A sky filled with bloody nectar. Oozing rose gold. Air painted like the body of a bloody
bumblebee. It was the first time I looked up at the sky and felt that my face belonged here. My
skin belonged here. My body is not a wound, but it is allowed to bleed. Pain is not an identity.
But it is okay to identify with pain. I am allowed to be.
The dandelion rested peacefully in my palm. Specks of sunlight scattered across its bright blonde
hair. A supple, independent being. A flower with a ferocious mane is within my grasp. I want to
love like dandelions. Make love with my consciousness. Slip my fingers across tree trunks and
tickle the bark. Cuddle my strawberry skin. My cheeks flushed and textured. My lips are
blossoming across my chin, falling freely from my skin. Hair, a halo of honey fungus. Curves,
cascading cauliflower florets. My skin belonged here. It is allowed to be.
