On Being A Chrysanthemum

Chrysanthemums have been and always will be my favorite flower

I don’t remember my mother too well, but I think she smelled like them

One.

My dad gave me chrysanthemums when I was three,

The day he told me what had been growing inside her

And for the longest time, I thought my mom had chrysanthemums growing inside her

As if flowers were some

Pestilent phenomenon, so envious of my mother’s beauty that they killed her

Two.

I was five I found out what cancer was

And ever since the thought of chrysanthemums has made me smile

Three.

I have a nervous smile

Like,

When you slice the length of a ribbon with a knife, it just recoils and curls upwards towards the edges

Like,

When I smile I can feel the sky falling but my lips are my last resort to defy gravity

Four.

The day that finally I believe in gravity will be the day my heart strings grow so heavy,

I just collapse into myself.

Five.

There was a year where legally, I couldn’t see my dad anymore. He, a discarded Chutes and Ladders board, always landed on the unlucky spaces, and I think I reminded him of everything he lost.

In those months I swallowed scars and stutters whole in front of everyone who assured me I didn’t need to be afraid of being abused anymore

So I just smiled at them

My teeth were the prison guards of every fear I locked away.

Six.

In 1972, the Stanford Prison Experiment concluded that just by giving a psychologically healthy person the role of a prison guard, they become capable of unimaginable brutality and aggression.

Maybe all the hurt I endured was my own doing.

Seven.

I desensitized myself to sunrise so I’d forget to remember what being awake felt like.

Eight.

I acculturated to a world without intimacy

Ripped out my heart and gave IOUs to every boy who said he loved me

Signed it, never mind I’ll put my hands to use for better things

Cursed everyone who said, “You’re just like your mom, she’d be so proud”

Tried to pluck the thorns out of those words because my name just brings hers shame

Nine.

My eyes have searched through infinite dimensions without touching happiness and it’s hard to believe they ever will

But lately I’ve been dipping my words in abandon, writing reckless on my timeline, I have faith that I will have been alive at some point.

Ten.

I realize crying is a beautiful thing                                

Even though it’s kryptonite to mascara

I love knowing that these tears are so fine tuned to imperfections on their path

They take detours just to listen

Our earthquake palms hypersensitive to everything

They know to reach for more than this

That we are built to overcome this

Depression is a condition we can condition ourselves to hide,

And often we hide it very well

Tie strings to our marionette figures and drag through one more day

And maybe hurting now is just a landmark to look back on when we’ve discovered where better begins

I don’t have consolation prizes for everyone who’s watched their own interment and lived to tell the tale

But, I used to think chrysanthemums could grow inside us

I still believe our bodies are the perfect environment for something wonderful to thrive