This is a photograph of an orchid in my room. A deceased orchid. An ex-orchid. As in this orchid is no longer. Besides stealing my oxygen it really just takes up space. It doesn’t make me happy. I tend to avoid looking at it out of guilt. I’m neglectful of it and it haunts me. There are nights I wake up in a panic feeling the spindly vines wrapped around my neck. I wouldn’t say I’m intentionally trying to kill it, I’m just not putting any effort forward to see it live. Not like it matters. This plant would be able to weather a house fire and come out of it singed but holding on. What took me a fuck of a long time to realize, is that beyond this dying shriveled orchid is a big fat metaphor of my own life. This annoying, spunky, stubborn piece of greenery was just like me. I don’t look after myself the way I'm supposed to. I know that if effort is put into it, a new bud can grow from the old and the orchid will come alive again; grow back even more beautiful. I don’t know about you, but today I’m going to do a little bit of gardening. I could use some extra watering and attention.