I was potted young;
plastic roots, ornamental pain.
he watered in vacuum,
fed me light laced with command.
The glass rustles at night.
it’s not wind but memory, bleeding through.
photosynthesis became obedience.
my leaves curl not from thirst, but dread.
I grew in the shape of his want.
snapped stems are easier to arrange.
he names the bruises sunspots,
says they happen when i reach too far.
I once tried to die quietly;
even decay must be earned here.
but the soil refused me.
even rot recoils from a lie this alive.