I think things sometimes. Dark things. Things I’m not proud of.
I wonder about what ifs. Like, what if I hadn’t met you? What if i hadn’t chosen you? What if you had not chosen me?
What if we made a mistake?
You have melted into my skin. And I into yours. And this, you and me, creates a new entity. A garden. Made of your questions and my answers. My questions, your answers. My actions, your reactions. My reactions to your actions—or are they reactions to reactions?
I can no longer tell what was planted by you or by me.
What was watered or neglected and by whom.
Who is responsible for this flower and for this weed? We will never know.
And what would bloom without our seeds? What would we be without one another? Something altogether different. But something better? Or something worse?
And what about tomorrow? If I start to shed your skin, what, who, might I find underneath?
I am left with just one question to ask and answer every day:
This entity, this garden of roots, withered or growing, is it something, someone I still want to see in the mirror?
Your flowers, your weeds, our seeds.
Author: Jenny Spitzer
Editor: Alli Sarazen