They say holding a grudge is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. I say, nonsense. A grudge isn’t poison—it’s a seed. You plant it deep, nurture it, and let it grow. It’s a slow process, yes, but the best things in life often are. A grudge, like any good plant, requires attention, patience, and the occasional pruning. And when the time comes, you either pluck the flower at its peak or let it wither and die, its beauty never shared.

A grudge starts small—an idea, a slight, a whisper of anger. You bury it, water it with every reminder of the wrong, and feed it with every missed opportunity for an apology. Over time, it grows. It sends roots deep into your resolve and vines that creep through your mind. Some might call this obsessive; I call it cultivation. You don’t rush a garden, and you don’t rush revenge.

But tending a grudge isn’t always a smooth process. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty. The weeds show up—those petty distractions, the minor grievances that threaten to choke out the real purpose. You pull them, one by one, clearing the way for your masterpiece to thrive. But be careful—some weeds look like flowers at first glance. The wrong misstep, the wrong move, and you’ll waste your energy on something that wasn’t worth your attention in the first place. No, the real satisfaction lies in nurturing the right grudge, letting it grow tall, strong, and undeniable.

And roses, oh, roses are the best kind of grudge. They’re beautiful, captivating, and impossible to ignore. But they’re also treacherous. Even when the petals fall and the bloom fades, the thorns remain. They’re a reminder that even a dead grudge can still draw blood. That’s the brilliance of it—a grudge doesn’t need to be alive to leave its mark. A thorn in the side, a prick of memory, a pain that never quite heals. That’s what a well-kept grudge does. It lingers, it stings, and it ensures no one forgets.

And yet, there are moments when the real power lies in doing nothing at all. Sometimes you let the flower bloom just to watch it wilt. The satisfaction isn’t always in the act of revenge but in the knowledge that you could act but choose not to. You let the grudge hang in the air, its shadow looming over them, a constant reminder that you hold the leash. The flower withers, the opportunity passes, and they’re left haunted by what could have been.

A garden of grudges isn’t just about the harvest—it’s about the control. Each flower, each thorn, each weed is a testament to the discipline of patience. Whether you pluck it at its prime or let it rot where it stands, the power is in knowing that it all exists because of you. You are the gardener, and the garden thrives under your hand.

So no, I don’t carry grudges. I grow them. I tend them with care and precision. Some I let bloom in spectacular fashion, a warning to anyone who dares cross me. Others I let wither in silence, their thorns left to sting long after the petals are gone. And when the time is right, I decide—will I let the world see the flower, or will I leave it to rot, its memory sharper than any act of revenge?

Either way, one thing is clear: crossing me is planting a seed you’ll wish had never sprouted. For even the deadliest rose is still a rose, and even in death, its thorns will make you bleed.