Root Rot

Please, don’t do it. 

I am practically begging you. I don’t think my body can take anymore of this. My core is entirely submerged and I fear that if I accept anymore, I will surely rupture. 

My space is engulfed with the liquid that you are so intent on suffocating me with. You have sentenced me to death. 

I am not yet dead but my body is rotting. My limbs are withering away, another piece of me dying each day. 

You have taken what is necessary for life and weaponized it against me, why? 

I do not know whether you are drowning me from the inside out of malice or ignorance. 

I once liked you. I once enjoyed your presence.

You brought me to life. You cared for me. 

That was a long while ago. 

I was young then. I was full of life.

You were proud of me.

I was easy to care for. I should still be easy to care for. 

You are incapable of caring for such a being. 

I wish you would realize that. I wish you would leave me alone. 

You smile at me. You look perfectly content as you drizzle more and more, all the while I so obviously show you that I do not wish for it. 

Can’t you see how I struggle. Can’t you see the signs.

I am frail. I slouch as I can no longer stand tall. I am brittle to the touch. 

You can see that I am wasting away, yet you flood me still. 

You think you can fix me.

I cannot speak yet I cannot be more clear. Just look at me. Look. At. Me.

You are doing this to me. It is your fault. 

I am strong. I was strong. I try to hold on.

I cry.

It has become so routine. You killing me. 

Every day I wait. For you to enter the room and initiate your sadistic ritual.

You come in. You smile at me. You. Smile. At. Me. 

You are cruel. You disgust me.

You pluck my injured extremity as if it’s nothing but a loose thread on one of your ugly sweaters.

I used to like your sweaters.

I cry for the lost pieces of me. The parts that I worked so hard to create. The bits that you so easily destroyed. 

I despise you and your sweaters.

You pick up the tool. You ruthlessly drown me where I stand. 

I gasp for air. It’s too much. Can’t you see that it’s too much. How can you not see that it’s too much.

I don't know how much longer I can hold on. 

The days become fuzzy. They blur into one another. I no longer bother crying. 

You don’t notice. You never have.

It’s close, I can feel it. The end. 

Something is different. 

You come into the room, humming and smiling. You look at me. 

I try to focus. I try to be strong.

You frown. 

My weak, dry limbs are no longer pleasing to look at. They were once lush and green. 

You did this to me. This is your fault.

Please, don’t do it. 

You grab hold of the watering can. 

Please, don’t do it. 

You pause.

I can’t help but sigh a thousand sighs when you replace the weapon back on the shelf. 

You grab hold of me. 

I hold my breath.

I would have never guessed what you do next. 

You toss me out. 

You took me to be surrounded by thriving, beautiful peers. You shook me from my resting place. 

I fall to the ground. I look up at you.

You look down on me.

You lazily sprinkle something over me. You are trying to bury me. You are not very good at it.

I can still see. I can still breathe. 

I feel the warmth of the sun shining down on me. I like it.

I lay in the dirt. It’s damp, but not too wet. Not like where I’ve been staying. I like it.

You leave me there. 

I sigh. You. Leave. Me. There. You are gone.

I am embarrassed, yet relieved. I have been thrown out. I am discolored and wilted and ugly, surrounded by the most lovely shades of green. Above me, my peers stand tall and proud.

I envy them.

I am alive. I am free. I should be grateful. I am not. I rest anyways.

I was out for quite some time. 

In fact, I do not believe I am where I was before. It all looks so different. 

I am not the same as before. I look different.

My limbs are light and lively. They are an appealing shade of yellow-green. 

I feel good. I feel vibrant. I am thriving. 

I was given another chance. I am grateful now.

I grow stronger every day. I am beyond what I ever imagined I could be.

I flourish for a long while. 

You return. You have changed too. Yet you have not flourished like I have.

I worry. I worry that my freedom has come to an end. I worry I will come to an end.

You get closer.

I am frightened to see your familiar, smiling face. I do not want to see your face.

You are pleased to see me. To see me prospering. To see me standing tall. 

I did this without you. I. Did. This.

You must realize this. You must realize that I have done so much better without you.

You don’t.

You are carrying a much-too-small terracotta pot. It dons uneven, orange stripes. 

I think I know where this is going. I don’t like it.

You set the terracotta pot by my side. You believe it is the perfect size. It is not.

I don’t like it.

You reach down and gently brush my leaves. 

I don’t like it.

You grasp the base of my body with one hand and bare a small shovel-like object in your other.

I don’t like it.

You smile.

Please, don’t do it.