Patriarchy’s Cold Soil

The master called us flowers. He told us to position ourselves alongside your trunk, right underneath your branches

We were to be the graceful companions that softened the harshness of your bark

We lovingly obeyed

You flourished in the summer; a wonder to behold. Your branches were gifted with luscious leaves that absorbed most of the sun’s light; leaving very little for us to soak up.  We made your wellbeing our photosynthesis and survived

You were already larger than life, but it was the contrast of our tiny fragile frames against your immenseness that made you feel closer to heaven

Your vast shape swallowed the rain before it could reach us, but with the might of our loyalty we persevered. Witnessing your growth became the quench to our thirst

We considered ourselves fortunate to have your protection; training ourselves to expect nothing more.  But your security turned out to be a lie that we had dressed in the pretty robes that our devotion had knitted

When the winds blew furiously at us, you did not calm their voices. In the face of the tribulation however, we found that we could still stand without your protection

When the twigs from the forest slashed our petals, you looked on. But somehow our petals were never completely destroyed; we could still claim our beauty

We would later discover that the story of your undignified intentions was written in the stars, and the master had always prepared us for it

It turns out that we were blooming to conquer, not for your admiration

This beauty he gave us has always just been a disguise for our adversity

You were never a home, and so we gracefully spread our roots to other parts of the land where we could build our own prosperity

The master called us flowers; but on your soil we are weeds.


Photography by BusiDh

Contact BusiDh 


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