What she means:Bitch let me tell you somethin you mothafuckin, low down, tired, diggity-dog, Hocus Pocus. Girl what the fuck is you doin on dis day?Gurl I can not fuck with you girl, you tired ass piece of fucking old shit that sat outside for two nights
Her parts are drying, shriveling progressively as I do all that I know to do when that happens. I have moved her around, tried to bring her closer to the light, and further from the light; I have pissed on her (I hear that helps).
And yet she still shrivels from my care. She is just like the man who gave her to me. She is not dead yet, and her deterioration has seemed to plateau, just like my feelings for the man who gave her to me.
In a way, her wilting reflects the state of one person who has been left behind by another he loves. She dries, she dries, and she dries. And, then, she cannot reduce herself beyond the fiber of her structure. When all the water has seeped from her veins, she can shed everything but her own body—only the Earth can eat her now. She is just like the man she was given to.
I pissed on her again not too long ago. She accepts my piss passively. She is just a plant. Nay, she is a flower.
She is a tropical flower: a bromeliad. She is exactly the kind of flower that a person who fears love would give; hardy, common, and strange.
Yet, I can’t let her die. I can’t let her death take on the supernatural symbolism I place upon, well, everything. She needs to live. She needs to take in more light, more water, more nutrients, more love. In a lot of ways, she is just like me.