Dear Plant

by Chua Han Au

 
I won’t be able to care for the plant, I confess
I don’t have time for reading
let alone dedicate additional time for this juvenile spirit

it’s puerile, akin to newborn babies
succulents they name them
their growth – according to heat and chill
where icy winds freeze their metabolism
contrastingly, the sweltering humidity accelerates it
even young green succulents are versatile, clever enough to acquire rudimentary skills of survival

I won’t be able to care for the plant, I repeat
its beauty, should not be left under the custody of someone who doesn’t even know how to iron out his emotions
letting melancholy like crows – a personification of black bile
hover and lay its eggs
on the skull
metastasising to the framework of the human body

I won’t be able to care for the plant, I sigh
I don’t have green hands
a sheer possession of rakish ones; corrosive to the core

but everything happens for a reason, I know
and so, if dear succulent, if you were to morph into dead leaves
please understand, that it isn’t because you weren’t beautiful, or that you were weak

but simply because you were put under the guardianship of someone, truly undeserving.

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