January 21st, 2007

butterfly

Artspark #265

Write from the point of view of an office pot(ted) plant


I'm so thirsty.  It wouldn't be so bad if they hadn't put me right over the radiator.  It's not as if they don't have any water here - look at it burbling away in that big bottle over there. They're always drinking - they spend ages gathered around the water, laughing and talking, mocking my thirst.

It's all right for the cactus.  He's used to it. (Though even he's looking a bit sad and brown round the edges these days.)  But I'm used to regular watering and feeding, and I don't mean the dregs of a cold cup of coffee poured on me now and again.

It was fine when she was here, the quiet one with the hair like autumn leaves.  She used to pet us, and talk to us.  I wish I'd learned what their noises mean. It sounded gentle, like a breeze through my petals. But after a while, the talking got sadder, and sometimes she watered us with salty water from her eyes.  And then she was gone.

Now I'm always thirsty.  And missing...something, something which isn't water, or sunshine, or food.

Crossposted to artspark