His seed once forced my mother’s petals open. Unlatched the chastity belt holding her plumage together. The gunpowder alighted itself to the stigma. The stigma she carried told her she was built to breed hatred. He then became a part of her style, seeped down into the center of her being, dug deep within her womb, and invaded eggs she had hidden within the bowels of her ovaries.
Praying never to create another plant in ISIS’ garden.
But I, I am just another flower in their garden. Terrorism is just a strong word for fertilization. Everything is relative, right? Built to carry the weight of dead bodies, my stem never bows. An oppressed oppressor fights the pressure of depression by carrying weights he cannot lift off himself.
Pistols must be taken away by another. With what hands can I pluck my own petals? Can I excise the thing that binds me with bound hands? Would they call that suicide? Or Jihad? Everything is relative, right? Because in my country my flower means beauty. My pistols, a sign of honor. A martyr is always cut from the stem. His danger always intact, sitting upon his shoulder. His roots staidly planted in the soil. But everything is relative, right?