155/365: The Terrible Scientist
When I was nine,
I was a secret scientist.
I stole flowers from my mother's container gardens
and planted them in tiny pots
that I hid behind my bedroom curtains.
I watered them with
saltwater, sugarwater, cold water, and hot water.
I collected my spit in a cup
to supplement their diets.
Out of guilt for perpetrating such acts
against helpless lives,
I prayed for their wellbeing
and wrapped them in tissues at night
that I had asked the holy spirit
to imbue with its lifegiving divine essence.
Their stalks grew soft, though,
until they slumped over like elderly men,
and then they died.
In my science journal I wrote
Don't name plants after dead people,
because I blamed their deaths on the fact
that I'd named them all after deceased relatives.
I was a terrible scientist.