raindrops and goodbyes can sound the same sometimes.
flowers need more than water to grow
maybe that’s why I run away at the sight of them blooming
I can’t even remember to water them once a day
how can I sustain them for years?
she says it’s okay that she gets thirsty sometimes
she’ll always find a way to get water
always grow towards the light
soak in the dirt
spread roots wherever she walks
I try to fill her up anyway
but I’m just too small, too empty to reach the top
she has leaves blended into pine straw legs
wet on the surface from dew
watering can strands of hair
spilling over the edge of flower pot shoulders
the soil gets heavy sometimes
atlas herself can’t bear the weight enough to shrug
sometimes she’s forced down on all fours
handprints stuck in muddy ground
cloth snagged on tree bark
protruding from branching arms
my name is carved in her wooden oaks
a heart encapsulates initials
but they are not ours
so I tell her the tale of how resilient she is
how her stem always manages to sprout
even after it’s stepped on
even after it’s ripped off
torn up & spit out
the petals she calls home float off one by one
begging me to love her
not
I tell her
I’m allergic to her pollen
that way I don’t have to tell her that I was the one who ripped out her frail beginnings
the one who tried to grow her in my hands
fingers cupped around the subtle curve of her sepal
I push her away gently, fingertips skimming polka-dot goosebumps
raised like braille on the soft petals of a daisy
I am not strong enough to say goodbye
not strong enough to see the bugs feasting on her leaves until she’s nothing but crumbs
too small to leave a trail back towards home
I see hues of pink and orange fall to the ground
where a crushed green stem meets the earth
they claim they have never met before
that they’re strangers
but they know each other far too well
she’s not very resilient anymore
but I am not strong enough to tell her
– I blame myself for your flowers dying