“I don’t like makahiya”
Because I associate everything with love: weeds, parenting, work, roads, food, Netflix shows, words, habits. Makahiya is called shameplant for a reason. Stomp on it, kick it, flick it, blow real hard - it will simply shrink like a comma. Thorns, at best. What good are thorns when you wince at the slightest touch? Nothing is more tragic than a thing that is unchangeably ashamed of itself. I want a love that is proud. Devastates. Obliterates. Fiery tongue torching your being to ashes. A knife unpeeling your squash skin, until your rinds’ knee-jerk response is vulnerability. Makes you look forward to therapy and good pills. Soldiers on despite syndromes, gray pubes, hospital visits, terrible taste in music, sagging boobs, bigger jeans, awkward silences, dry spells, second marriages, odd jobs, mail stamps, red-eye flights, difficult conversations. Writes confessions in all caps. When asked, enthuses, yes, that’s her and this is us. Privacy is precious. Love can be quiet, yet steadfast and brazen. Calm but ferocious. Small but able to wound and protect. Does not cower like a goddamn coward when threatened. When backhoe jaws loom overhead, love plants its roots deeper into the ground next to yours, holds your hand, and tells you
That thing cannot touch us. I won’t let it. We won’t let it.