When I first met you, you were the light of my life. Your image was plastered all down my Instagram feed, and all I wanted to do was learn more about you.
I knew my family and friends didn’t approve.
Words like “you have no time” and “you should be focused on your studies” were hurled at me left and right, but what can I say? Nothing they said mattered; I was obsessed. I made it past your prickly exterior and saw the beauty that lay within. The truth is, I thought I could take care of you… my poor, poor succulent.
But I was wrong. I wanted to be the person you needed, but you never told me that you felt smothered under my care, drowning in my love.
I should have known. After all, you weren’t the first one I’ve had to let go.
Last January, there was another, one who craved my attention and love but received neither. He withered in the darkness, thirsting for care that he never received, a constant reminder on my shelf of my neglect.
In May, I found love anew. I can picture her still, as she sat at the window, beautiful in all her flowery glory, but my love for her dried up and burned. She too, left me… for the compost bin.
There was the one I met last summer, warm and in his element. I can remember him like it was yesterday, all green and golden.
However, summer romances are not meant to last. Though I tried my best to hang on, his colours faded just like the autumn leaves until he withered and was gone . . . probably devoured by the dog.
I found another in November. I thought I’d take things slow, but I neglected her as I jetted off on my eventful Christmas break. Forgotten, she suffered. She now resides amongst textbooks and dust bunnies, and I’m ashamed to say I rarely visit her.
Now I feel as though I must add you to my list too. Dear succulent, I know we only knew each other a short time but . . . I loved you . . . I’m so sorry. I know the truth now; I’m literally less nurturing than a desert.
