I am a plant in a pot.
other plants grow upwards, reaching for the sun, turning emerald in the light of day, growing brighter and heavier with perfumed flowers of deep magenta and satiny yellow. they sit peacefully in their pot, only needing water and sun and an occasional prune for when they get too out of line. their roots sit placidly at the bottom of their pot, sipping languidly at the leftover drops from Saturday's rain.
I am not like that. my plant shoots up brown and dead; a sickly thing. I am hunched over, and pieces of wrinkled leaves sail away at the whisper of the slightest wind. whatever flowers that are produced from the weak, colorless branches are choking on springtime. no bees nor butterflies hum excitedly around me, for I am death in a pot, and no matter what a gardener administers into the soil— I grow dead.
other plants' roots are so content in their confinements, but mine, as ugly as the plant grows above the pot, are a bright blue. they are imbued with desperate electricity and push furiously at the bottom of the pot, reaching, reaching, reaching. it is a curse and a virus but no fertilizer will cure a broken soul.
and so my pot shatters, and bright blue fingers sink into the earth, nudging up grass and life and faeries that hide below the ground. they reach further and further, with cries repeating that I am not meant to sit in a pot! I am not meant to be assigned to a square foot of land! I am meant to return the skin of selkies and dance in the light of the moon, dismissive of law and vibrant with life! I am the morning and the morning is I— I thunder awake in the sunrise and am sung to sleep by mab. each wildflower becomes me, and I have my own garden— nurturing glowing, pearlescent dreams. it is the ache of the confinement of my own body that push my roots further and further underground.
until my roots hit heat. but I can only be death above the surface, so the flames imbue my veins. I tilt my head back and exhale sparks into night air; and the sky twinkles with new stars. there are dragons in my chest.
when the gardener returns the next morning, he is greeted by a plant with strong blue branches and glowing flower buds made of flame. it needs no water nor sunlight, but hungers instead for star-song and freedom.
I am a plant in a cracked pot. but my roots are made of sapphires and I drink fire instead of rain. I cannot assign myself a future when an empty road sits waiting for me.