i have this app called Plant Nanny –
basically, you have a virtual plant in your phone.
every time you drink a glass of water,
you tell your phone,
& your little plant is watered too.
you can water it
let it grow
foster it
or you can watch it wilt.
of course, being a responsible,
competent college student, i
let it die within the first week.
i have learned a lot from this plant app,
like when you see a virtual plant
die in front of you
it does not motivate you to drink more
water but it does motivate you
to feel really fucking guilty about yourself.
i have this thing called my mind –
basically, you have this analog brain in your head.
every time you do something healthy,
your brain senses it,
& your mind lights up too.
you can water it
let it grow
foster it
or you can watch it die.
of course, being a responsible,
competent college student,
i have long felt
depression’s parched, calloused grip
around my throat.
dehydrated hands
& desert lips.
i have learned a lot from my diagnosis –
like when you see your own body
evaporate in front of you
it does not motivate you to drink more
water but it does motivate you
to feel really fucking guilty about yourself.
mental health is like a garden.
you can water it
let it grow
foster it
or you can neglect it
watch it wilt
watch it wither
sometimes
it’s the small things –
pruning the split ends
from my hair
like dead branches.
avoiding the shower
for a week, then
running my fingers
dry along my scalp,
dandruff drifting
in the air
like a swarm of dandelion
seeds in the sizzling summer breeze.
my brother
telling me
to just go outside,
that if only
you had a little more sunlight
or just drank some more water
you would be fine.
sometimes
i wonder if i should
just die. like
i only thought about this plant
once i saw it had already wilted.
why is watering myself
the hardest thing i’ve ever done?
like
again, i’m lying awake
at night – rose-petal ribs
& poison-ivy palms –
petrified of my own
drought.
isn’t it funny
how the moon
always turns a firefly
into a phoenix? like
my own mind
is an invasive species
i can’t fight off.
what is this pain
if not perennial?
every year
on my birthday,
i awake to a new
red-ring scar engraved
on my tree-trunk limbs.
i’ve spent years
dealing with self harm.
sometimes,
i saturate my skin
& germinate
my guts,
my spine
a nursery of dread.
if i could mutate my mouth,
i would.
if i could fertilize my fear,
i would.
if i could drink fucking water
without exhausting myself,
i would.
self-care is like a garden –
you can water it
let it grow
foster it
or
you can neglect it
watch it wilt
watch it bleed
sometimes
i cut myself open
& rip out each vein
like a weed.
i am always thirsty,
but i am too busy
baptizing my bones in blood
to get a glass of water.
i can’t keep a
virtual plant alive
– not even
the fucking cactus –
because i
am too crazy
to remember
that if i don’t drink water,
it will die before i do.
•
when my brother asks
if i am feeling any better
after his advice,
i tell him that,
truthfully,
every night i imagine myself –
somewhere –
beneath six feet of dirt.
