I have tried, in my ways, to make things right.
In the bathtub, I have tossed out seeds into fertile belly rolls, hoping in the morning to twist towards the sun.
In the backyard, I have watched the moths; busy, in love, avoiding me.
In the bed, where I could never stand to be held.
In the bed, where I was never ripe enough to pick, too aware of future pottery, too green.
I have planted flowers in the windowsill.
I have given them light, and tried to remember water, but there’s no convincing them.
When they die, I am relieved. I was never useful to them.
The flowers I’ve planted don’t remember me, and that’s what dying feels like.
No love, no water, no sun enough—I try not to mourn too long for either of us.
You have tried, you have tried, you are tired as each petal is pulled. The thin, remaining stem will avoid notice for now, anticipating the return of a bloom.