Weeds

Rumors flew, today, bouncing off of walls and lockers, filtering through mouths and ears, changing at every turn. But everyone seemed to have the same bare bones: that, at the mall the day before, Amanda had tried so very hard to tell me there were people who cared for me. Apparently, she had tried to make me understand that even though my dad hurt me, I wasn’t a useless zit on the face of society. But even after that sweet attempt at boosting my confidence, I very nearly punched poor, thoughtful Amanda in the face…but chose instead to deck a nearby wall. All out of ‘misdirected anger’ at my ‘abusive father.’

They don’t understand. They will never understand. My dad wasn’t abusive. He was…a Japanese maple tree, so beautiful, but all anyone could see was that he didn’t fit. He…took what wasn’t his to take. Instead of patiently waiting to see what he might have had to offer, what may have lay between his roots, they snuffed him out.

They looked no further than what they saw: a weed.