It was a few weeks ago now that I decided on my plan to fold myself into a patch of grass which sits a mile and a half from the northwestern-most door in my family’s home. It isn’t a plan I told anyone about. I knew they wouldn’t understand. My mother would probably say it’s some sort of coping mechanism and my friends would worry that this was an attempt to die. They would all be way off base. What they would misunderstand is that there is no dying at the end of this project, just living forever and ever and ever and ever.
The project began with research. While I, at first, felt bad about not knowing the name of the grass species I wanted to become part of—Switchgrass—I quickly shook that thought off. You don’t need to know something’s name to love it, I said to myself. A name is a signpost put up by strangers nearby, one that maybe ought to be taken down anyways. It creates expectation, it gets in the way of a love that is pure and meaningful. I regret that I ever learned the name, the more I think on it. Please, if you would, forget it; go back and cross that name out and don’t think of it ever again.
The seeds were easy enough to acquire online. It’s entirely possible that they were residing at a garden store in town, and I could have gotten them the day I conjured my plan, but I couldn’t risk even a single witness. Much more worrisome than doubters of my plan would be those who saw me purchase the seeds and saw the way I looked at them. Holding them carefully, packing them away like they were my own children, they would deduce from these clues the entirety of my plan to steal it from me. I think most people, if they really stopped judging and dug deep, would find that they too would like to be folded into grass, to grow with it until it takes over their body and they become grass, unnamed, simply, totally.
I didn’t believe that, if I simply laid in the grassy patch, the grass would know to grow into me. Of course, I had to jump-start the process. As a general rule, switchgr—these grass seeds should be planted about a quarter inch into the soil to properly germinate, assuming the sprout will push up through loose, loamy soil and not human fat and skin. Therefore, to properly begin growing on my person, I decided that they ought to be tucked into the dermal layer, deep enough that they don’t risk falling out of me but close enough to the surface that they could push up when needed. I figured the stomach would be a good place to start, allowing the most space to spread and grow without peeking out from my clothes.
The operation itself was immensely difficult. With a sharp enough blade, it is very easy to push too deep, and once there’s a little blood there’s a lot. Frankly, it was far more painful than I had anticipated. Towards the end of the process my mother began knocking on the door because she needed to use the bathroom, and so with shaking and rushed hands I pushed as many seeds into the skin on my stomach as I possibly could and wrapped a bandage around them and bit my tongue so I wouldn’t cry and shoved all the bloody tissues into the trash can and threw out clean ones to cover them up and gathered all my tools and implements and stuffed the remaining seed packets into my pants pockets and…well, suffice it to say, I could have planned it a bit better. Perhaps a ritual would have done well, complete with candles and the like, but perhaps the ritual itself would become another signpost I’d have to tear down later. Keep forgetting that name I told you, by the way.
The morning began overcast and is slowly changing into a sickeningly sunny day. I walk to the forest in high spirits because my stomach has been in terrible pain for the past few days, which means the roots must be reaching into me and filling the gaps and making a home. I keep the bandage moist and I eat potassium, calcium, and iron so that the seeds get all the nutrients they need. Maybe I am getting ahead of myself since they haven’t fed on sunlight yet. However, it’s entirely possible that the grass is spreading within my torso, already so happy with its well-curated habitat—already deeply in love with me. I’m not quite ready to fold myself into the grass, mind you, but I do think I’ll remove the bandages and lay down flat so that the sun can feed my new growth and I can imagine what it will feel like, soon.
I approach the patch of grass and hesitate because I can’t quite see the view I’m used to. Usually, the forest parts into a small clearing and the grass stands tall, reaching upwards to become visible for a keen eye such as my own. Yet, from my vantage point, only fifty yards away, I can’t see the glittering tops of the blades at all. My throat tightens and I start running, searching for my field, only to find a massacre. The patch is desolate, the stalks flattened against the ground and bruised so badly that they are already brown as the mud. The entire patch has been maimed. Distinct tire tracks tell me all I need to know; thick tires, a lifted truck, some stupid fucking off-roader.
I fall over, my stomach lurching. The grass that had, just the day before, been gently swaying as the wind breathed through them, now lay limp and unmoving. I feel a rush in my stomach as my body convulses. I vomit. All of the food that I had for my seeds to absorb whips out of my throat and spills everywhere. I try to push it away from the lifeless grass but the acid from inside me is already eating away at what remains. I can no longer see clearly, my eyesight is fuzzy. I tear off my shirt to look at the bandages, brown and black and wet as I left them, and I unwrap them. The nausea fogs over my thoughts as I become dizzier with each unwrapping. I stare at the wound. In my shaking hands is a pile of bandages and the seeds, the seeds which fell out, each one dark with sickness. Over my dampened breath, I hear a car’s motor and a whooping voice. I wonder what the grass would have wanted me to do next—what you must think of me now.