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I am young. I am a woman. I am a lover, a sibling, a daughter. I am the small black-sheep daughter. I am the outsider deemed unlovable by my cruel father. I am my mother's disobedient, unwanted daughter. I am the decade-younger bother to my father-like brother, and perfect-shadow sister. I am a hater of my roots. I am the seed of chaos and isolation. I am a plant forced to grow in wild nature, no sunlit nurture.
I am still a believer, indulging in my faith. I am the onlooker of my uncharted fate. I am a sinner too ashamed to admit I have sinned. I am, yet, an unashamed weaver of the wreath of stories I create. I am a lover of sadness, the arts, and my love. I am a striving overachiever in the unloving face of failure. I am an immigrant in a land I am hesitant to call my own; I am a gardener in this land I now call home.
I am a stunted tree fighting to reach the blessing sun. I am an uprooted tree planted in a garden of bloom. Magnolia, plumeria, alyssum, wisteria — I am surrounded by trees and flowers with welcoming roots. Poison-oak, poison-ivy — I am taller than the shrubs with unwelcoming roots. I am a tree willing to grow in warm nature, with sunlit nurture. I am alive and growing, despite overbearing shrubbery. I am young. I am a woman. I am a lover, a weaver, and a gardener. I am my own planter.
image: Claude Monet, Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lilies, 1899, Metropolitan Museum of Art.
