I am a patient,
even without the paperwork.
Fighting off the fog
with flower instead of prescriptions,
choosing green over the cold bite
of chemical chains.
**** keeps me steady.
Keeps me soft.
Keeps me here.

I’ve studied this plant
like scripture passed down in whispers,
watched buds form like slow miracles
sacred, sticky,
glowing under grow lights
like halos on a hard day.

I’ve spoken to the leaves
like kin who remember
when the world made more sense.
This isn’t just a hustle or a job.
This is a calling,
a path I’ve taken
with bare feet and open palms,
whether the world welcomes me or not.

If I had the space,
the tools,
the soil
I’d grow medicine
for every aching soul I crossed paths with:

sun-kissed colas
to hush the sleepless,
oil for the grieving,
tinctures for the hollowed-out hearts
of a world stretched too thin by fear.

Because this isn’t about getting high.
It’s about getting whole.
And helping others feel
just a little more rooted
in a life that still hurts
but also heals.