by Olivia
That flower bush is dying. I don’t know how to keep it from retracting its arms into the shadows. And it keeps saying strange strings of words that don’t make sense. I’ve tried sunlight, water, even whispered secrets to its leaves, but still it shudders at my touch, curling deeper into the dark like it knows something I don’t. Sometimes, at night, I swear I see it moving—not swaying in the wind, but reaching, searching, like it’s looking for a way out…or a way in. A way into my thoughts. Just to get under my skin like an infection. I can’t help but give it my attention because it bothers me honestly. Lately, it’s started humming—low and quiet, like the sound of something breathing through soil—and I can’t tell if it’s warning me that I could resemble it if I don’t welcome this in. So I let it in. I don’t know if it was a mistake yet or not. But who knows…it could make my mind turn to mush and my thoughts go mad. My limbs turn to rubber and my ideas leak and smother, one after another. Going down a drain like a rabbit running for cover. It could make the ceilings hum secrets only the spoons can utter, as the floor starts whispering like a jealous lover and the clocks melt dreams like leftover butter.
Or not.
Maybe it just wanted someone to notice it before the silence grew teeth. Well I noticed it alright. In an ideal world my thoughts wear hats made of shimmering blubber while the floor sings tunes to a lubber.
I think the dying flower bush got me. Like a tuber growing underneath a plant.