Wilted

I didn’t notice—your leaves are now

ashy and brown, hanging over

the pot like long, tired sighs.

The soil could never hold

the things to keep you

alive. And I

stopped tending

to you.

But

I count

your death a

victory. You,

tiny desk plant gifted

to me from a past team,

are dead. And so is my rage,

grief, and sense of loss over this

Devastating pocket of my past.