Ivy

If I wasn’t a wildflower, the book would end differently. If I blended into the bed of roses like a beautiful star amongst thousands of others, it’d be worth the risk. If I wasn’t slightly broken, if I wasn’t impatient and flawed, if I didn’t hold onto things and grow where I’m not wanted; you’d be here, and it would end differently.

Who would choose to plant a weed in their own garden?

If I wasn’t a wildflower competing with a Lily, then maybe you’d have chosen me all along. Maybe you’d never have discovered the beauty of an artificial, mechanical garden where you can pick and choose rather than love what you’ve been given.

It counts for nothing really, when all is said and done. You can pluck me from the ground and discard me, I keep coming back, popping my head above the ground; surprise, me again. It means nothing. A heart full of desire and longing, I’d never let you down, I’d be something different, something exciting.

But no. They’re prettier of course, ‘natural blondes’, more convenient, less effort. People ask less questions. 

If I wasn’t a wildflower, there would have been no debate, no tangent to get lost in, no phone calls that you’d regret in the morning. If I wasn’t a wildflower, I wouldn’t be used to it, I wouldn’t need to understand your dilemma.

But I’m not a Rose, I’m not polished, I don’t have a suit of armour built from thorns to shield myself; it all seeps in and tears me apart from inside. I’m weak. I’m a flight risk.

Some have had me mistaken for poison ivy; something evil or dangerous, something damaged, a lost cause. Maybe they were right and that’s why.

I sometimes wonder if I should just let myself wilt and shrivel; maybe when you realise my worth you can revive me a little with some sugar water and empty promises.

But the truth is, I’m not worth saving, not when you can’t purchase the right seeds from a big green garden centre and recreate my magic; too much effort right?

Maybe next time I should let the wind carry me away, pop up somewhere on the side of a road, I’ll get used to people coming and going. Maybe then I’ll accept that none of it was real.

If I had an identity, a name or an image, if I was a Daisy,

then maybe?