Tabatha Wharton


{musings of an aging millennial trope}


  image courtesy of Corey Collins

image courtesy of Corey Collins

my therapist asks me if it is always an instant moment, my falling 

no, i tell her.

the big two, the last two, were the first times i picked a human not out of convenience or sheer proximity to my presence but because i had genuine interest. before then, and even then with each of them, i was an open garden gate; whoever could reach the latch was allowed in to cut down and take whatever blooms struck their fancy; i did not discriminate, i did not deny entry or deploy my thorns. pausing mid-stride, casually noticing the partially curated view, that was enough to be granted full access.

now, i am the gatekeeper and the garden appears a wild, towering thicket; the latch has been replaced with a padlocked deadbolt; an electric fence marks the perimeter. only those who are invited may enter; only when i and only i lay down my defenses will access be granted.

i am now made a fortress of gothic proportions; a labyrinth constructed by lilith after she lay betrayed. i say what takes root behind my painted pickets. i decide the shaping and the coloring of the landscaping, the aesthetic a design solely my own.

i will not settle for any lazy weekend gardener with rusty shears and a greedy hand, leaving muddied boot prints in the wake.

no, now that i know what i bring to the table, the bounty and the splendor i have carefully cultivated myself to yield, no. i will not reduce myself to an open harvest only to be left to lay fallow and empty, the fruits of my past labors left strewn across the footpaths cut through me, rotting away in the midday sun.

no, my heart is no longer a pretty plot to desicrate at someone else’s leisure. it is a sacred place disguised in plain sight; it is a journey guided by a full moons’s light as much as it is a mythical destination. only the worthy may ever trespass here, amen.

my falling has never been, will never be, instant.

taking root

never is.