You killed our love fern.

To my SunShine boy,

I poked myself with our cactus the other day. It wasn't pleasant, but I just can't bring myself to get rid of it. We are similar you know? This cactus and me. Resilient. It really deserves a better home. But you didn't want it, so it sits atop the tv you gave me when you moved. It lacks water and is still small. And that's where we differ. I've grown. I've changed.

You made me.

I wrote you letters and songs, and sang to the moon hoping you'd hear. I screamed and bled and almost lost the laughter.

But I'm resilient you know.

I used to flash back, to the kitchen kisses and water fights. I used to miss staying up to fix things and sneaking out for midnight romance. There are rare occasions when I remember Walgreens and crying into your pillow. In those moments I missed you tenderness.

Now all I miss is the kindness you used to posses.

I still don't understand how I lost all my worth in your eyes so quickly. I don't know why breaking me was easier than sacrificing us. And I'll never know what that night was for you.

But I'm resilient you know.

You left me in a desert. And hoped cold bloodedness would grow on me.

But It hasn't yet.