Sunday, 5 February 2017


Dearest body, I close my eyes and picture you, a garden. Gardens can never be constant. The weather's always changing. And like a garden, you're never constant, and the weather is your head. Sometimes you're so soft, as soft as green grass on a spring day, the green grass that holds the two lovers lying together, hearing nothing but each other's heartbeats, the green grass that holds the two friends that feel like each other's homes, that holds that little wanderer quiet girl, who's always in a different place in her head. Other times, you're fragile, as fragile as a dry leaf in an autumn day. Sometimes you're stark like a lonely garden on a cold winter night. And sometimes you're as bright as a sunflower. My dear, some nights it feels like you're strong enough to hold the weight of the whole world upon your shoulders, to host wars even. You are my home. And for so long I mistook you for a prison, and I tried to burn you to ashes, only to have you warm me, instead of crumbling down on me. So forgive me, for all the winters and autumns my head gave you, and know, that you are a garden, and just like a garden, you'll keep rising from the dirt to be a home of colours and beauty. And know, that there will be storms that will shake you, embrace them with open arms, because there's also always spring

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