The blight

I used to think of blight as something that takes. A rot, a ruin, a creeping thing that spoils. I’d heard the word used in gardens, in news reports, in quiet conversations about things gone wrong. But then it happened to me. Not the decay. Not the withering. The other kind. It began slowly, like most disasters do. A touch, a glance, a sentence that stayed too long in my head. Spinning. Love. I think that’s what it was, though even now, the word feels too simple for what it did to me. It didn't arrive like light. It came like floodwater. It drowned me. It surged past logic and tore down the brittle structures I’d built in my keep. It was a blight. Not one of loss. One of abundance. Overgrowth. Uncontainable beauty. It spread in me, until I couldn't think straight. I forgot how to be afraid. I forgot how to stay small. My routines cracked. My solitude crumbled. I let someone in. And suddenly, my carefully kept inner world was overrun. Reclaimed. I was devastated by joy. Ravaged by tenderness. Uprooted by something I hadn’t known I was starving for. I needed more. So now, when I hear the word blight, I smile in secret. Because I know what it can mean. Love, wild unreasonable love, too much to manage. Would I ever go back? No need to ask, I'll stay in my blight.