A winter of being pity loved,
Like a wilting plant.
People try to water me,
Put me out in the sun,
Caress my leaves,
Tie me to wooden stakes so I no longer droop with the weight of these photosynthetic dreams.
But they aren’t really loving me. They’re avoiding my decay.
How difficult it must be
knowing the soothing greenness in your living room might fade to illness and rot.
So they tend to me.
Offers of fertilizer
and countless web searches on “how to know if your friend is suicidal.”
An attempt to cultivate some perennial purpose,
to prove some divine botanical instinct,
to me, to themselves.
Still, I lay.
Listening to my cells softly join with soil.
Stealing nutrients to lay in bed once more.
everything about mental health feels selfish.
everything about love feels selfish.
Link to Concordia Mental Health Resources: https://www.concordia.ca/health/mental.html