by Isa Larco
by Corinne Greene
Long scraggly fingers once adorned with leaves
(they now lie scattered on the floor)
look sad, and lonely, and naked.
Follow their lines,
down to their drooping ends
where leaves still cling, green, alive and glossy
unaware of their future on the floor.
Why did you make me this way?
Is this what you call caring?
Your worry was so great, you smothered me until I overflowed.
You left me no room to grow.