my philodendron moves from shelf to windowsill, is watered sparingly and then too much. it’s an exercise in keeping something alive. i’ve had it since december, a birthday, when i was overwatered and freckled. patterned with salt drips, speckled and skewbald with vermillion. it’s the longest i’ve kept anything alive, - not including myself. - and i wonder how it would feel to remember, if remembering is as good as it used to be, if i could still spill crimson and carmine like gentle slicing into a poached egg and watching it leak. my skin glows in the sunlit bed of a curtained room. i trace the bumps - eyes closed - like braille, read between the lines, try to comprehend. - and then i watch the days of june and then july go by in a series of dates in an incomprehensible pattern, and it doesn’t seem to make sense, or it makes sense in a way that i don’t yet understand. i think of a series of tally marks, etched fragile into skin. are they the days or just the bad ones? i wonder the difference. if it’s the sun on a windowsill or just a bright light. - i check the plant, water it again. it’s still alive.
SAD (seasonal affective disorder)
