An Open Letter To Weeds

Weeds,

This is a letter written to you, to all of you, to cease and desist.

We’ve known each other for a long time. Back when I was 11 years old, I was introduced to your terrible attitudes, unwavering persistence and all the pain you cause. And for a time there, I didn’t mind at all. Because I was rewarded at the end of your lives. A movie. A dinner out. $10 to spend however I pleased.

But that was because my mom had experienced the hatred for too long. And had to pass that hatred along to me. For those summers, I went along with it, because Nintendo games, Magic cards and Janet Jackson’s CD can’t just wait for Christmas time. Money is something that I didn’t have, and you were part of the answer.

So I worked under the table. Pulling you. Digging you out.

Back then, my young back and arms could handle your de-beautification of our walkways and our flower beds. But today felt like the last straw.

Oh, and I know it won’t be. You thought you were getting off that easy? Maybe after two summers of experiencing my wrath you thought I would give up?

I know you’ll be back for more. And when you are, I’ll be just as unready and unwilling as I was today.

Now, the reward at the end of pain is gone. The only satisfaction I get from tearing your little legs out of the ground is just that. Knowing that in your little weed like ways, you’re screaming. But I can’t hear you. I can only hear the cool breeze on my neck while I think to myself, “Yeah! WHAT! Don’t you be comin’ back around now ya hear?” While I wrap both of my hands around your leaves and rip you apart. Piece by innocent piece.

And don’t think I don’t see your little white roots you weeds. Just like the snake – you only chop part of it off, it’ll grow back. No. I am going to dig my fingers in to the ground until I get every last inch of you. And yes, that’s you flying across the yard in to the blackberry bushes. To be strangled by thorns thrice your size or picked up by a bird and used to create a nest. I hope they shit on you. Oh, and make room for your mom, dad, and all your little brothers and sisters – your cousins too. Just like you did, they will all fall.

The weed and feed seems to be working somewhat. Or maybe it was that dry scorching heat that I haven’t given you any reprieve for. But today, you were easy. You were enjoyable. The ground couldn’t hold you down. It became dust. And I bet you saw that bag of fertilizer and thought that it meant that we were going to be feeding you. My my, were you ever so wrong. You browned out while my beautiful lush, green and controlled grass grew up strong all around you.

And what did you do? You tried your best to spread – to crawl like the coward you are. But you didn’t make it far enough, fast enough. And now you’ll be like a broken branch. Or the bones of someone 4 times my age. Dried, brittle and praying that God have mercy on your soul when you meet him.

For you, I can’t say. But for now, you’ve got at least 2 more months of scorching hot hell while you lay atop the canopy of what real plants should look like. I hope you serve as an example for your brethren. But you’re like me, I understand. You’re stubborn. And really, I know you can’t read so I have no idea how this letter will affect you at all.

But if could read this - just know for now. If you’re looking for a death wish, please be my guest and stop by. I promise I’ll make your stay as uncomfortable as possible. Just make it easy on both of us and die from fear.

Your death dealer and sworn life enemy,

Seth