plants and maters

All there remains is the warm fresh smell of greenhouses, the birth of new leaves and life, the grains of perlite clinging to your fingers, and the hope of life-changing blossoms. All wrapped up in a secure container, a tray to catch the spills, echoed in the straining reaches towards the light.



Airbrushed Tomatoes.

I should eat my tomatoes. They are swimming in the bottom of my bowl, covered in a slick layer of salad dressing--Newman's Own, Olive Oil and Vinegar--and they taunt me. Their plump, organic selves flinging insults in my face, as red as the flesh that covers them. I should eat them, in their smooth sheen of olive oil, airbrushing the impurities, the imperfections of organic birth, away. I should eat them. Cut up, mangled, exoskeletons of their magnificent selves, stolen from their caged green beds, to serve in the bottom of a bowl. I should eat them.

You feel like molten copper. Ore that clings to me, covers me, pulls me under. You say I can swim. I can learn to swim, to tread water. I shouldn’t have to swim. Not in my own fucking mind.