I can feel myself dying. My leaves are shriveling and I can see them turning brown. My stem is slowly bowing, almost too fragile to hold up my head.
I used to be so beautiful, my stem winding skyward and leaves sprouting in different directions. My head used to be covered with beautiful orange petals. I used to be the envy of the plants outside. I could see them from the window, pretending to sway in the wind just to get a glimpse of me, the lucky one. Now they laugh, their tinkling too quiet for the humans to hear, but it’s everywhere.
The Humans have neglected me. They’ve forgotten all about me. The mother used to send her small boy over to my hand painted pot with a small cup of water, and sometimes she would painfully clip my leaves, supposedly to make me look prettier. I want that back, yes, even the pain. Anything is better than this wasted feeling. The hunger. Lifelessness.
I need sunshine. If only they’d have put in closer to the window before they left. They didn’t pay me any mind when they hurriedly packed their possessions and locked the door behind them. But if I could only feel the sunshine on me, maybe I could make myself stronger, will myself to live.
I can feel the thirst in my roots getting stronger as I watch the last of my now shriveled petals fall onto the dry dusty potting soil. I need to get water now. I can feel myself growing weaker by the second. Sunlight, water, sunlight, water, water, water. I’m so parched, so frantic, but powerless. I’m so powerless. Without power, that’s my disadvantage. Plants themselves are powerless. But I have to live. I have to.
The pain and thirst, the hunger and feebleness, it’s taking over me. When The Humans come home, if they come home, they’ll be left with a dead and forgotten houseplant.