The Plant You Brought Me

Sometimes, I ask myself how could you trust me to care, even for a plant.
Maybe, you didn’t know. Things I love and things I hate have the same ending; they die.
I used to feel everything at the same time,
but now I wake up every morning,
walk by the plant you brought me and think, “I’ll water it tomorrow,“(if it survives till then).
The plant you brought me makes me sad.
I look at it and all I see is a reflection of me being
lonely,
indecisive,
inclined to pushing people out of my life.
How could you trust me to care?
The only thing I could ever feel is the guilt for not feeling.
This red flower—I don’t even know a name of—
begs me to stop looking for love,
not because that emotion is never permanent, but because I’m the temporary one.
The plant you brought me will soon be dead and as much as I love metaphors, this one’s an exception.
The plant you brought me helps me believe in drastic changes
for it flourished in my room, but is dying next to the TV cables.
I can’t stand to look at the plant you brought me anymore.