I kill plants.
I kill succulents, who are drowned in my care.
I kill ivies, who thirst for my care.
I kill orchids, who are crushed by my care.
I kill “indestructible” zamioculcas
(I still haven’t figured out how)
(I’m sure it’s my care)
There’s this sprout that shows up every time.
It has two tiny leaves, reaching out of the top, beckoning me to care for it.
I want it to grow.
to flourish.
to extend so high that Jack could
climb it.
Or me. I could climb it.
(Probably not me.)
(Have you seen me?)
I kill my hopes. They’re audaciously high, for me.
I kill my dreams. They’re a bit unrealistic, for me.
I kill the sprout, every time.
It reaches up and my enthusiasm
crushes it, because I can’t even keep
a succulent alive.
But then, it hits me. Sunlight.
So I’ll try it again.
I’ll kill another plant.

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