Dandelions

By Bella Melardi  

I found a garden in my neighbourhood. I would walk by every so often. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with my boyfriend. In that garden, everything lived by its own logic. Nobody controlled anybody. Stepelia flowers spat out a smell of decay. Calling to flies who lay maggots. Who feast upon their making. And still, the flowers bloom. It reminds me that there are countless ways to exist. Existence is not a monolith. You can survive, smelling sweet or bitter. I don’t have to be written in a language that doesn’t feel like home. 

One morning I picked up a dandelion that was sprouting in the foliage. I was alone but I was okay. Strawberry guts spilling out of the sunrise. A sky filled with bloody nectar. Oozing rose gold. Air painted like the body of a bloody bumblebee. It was the first time I looked up at the sky and thought my face belonged here. My skin belonged here. My body is not a wound but it is allowed to bleed. It is allowed to be. 

The dandelion rested peacefully in my palm. Specks of sunlight scattered across its bright blonde hair. A supple independent being. I want to love like dandelions. Cuddle my strawberry skin.  My cheeks flushed and textured. Hair a halo of honey fungus. Curves cauliflower florets. My skin belongs here. It is allowed to be.