Watering my bamboo plant before I water myself--a thoughtful lie. 

Showering knowing his pebbles are dry because my impulses are my priority. 

​

Video games, Discord calls, and a cat he named after the devil. I’m his bamboo plant:

wilted, jilted, and tilted toward him. Me, myself, and us: his minority priorities. 

​

Late for work, again. Sitting at the desk and holding a cup with someone else’s name. I told her “Zoe,” but I didn’t tell her without a “y.” Why? Because my name is not the barista’s priority. 

​

My stem bends under the duress of responsibilities, leaves drooping over

an expanse of unfulfilled offices. I am unfit to be my own prioress. 

​

Lying in bed until noon. Snooze. Snooze, again. This weekend ritual has got to end. My hands

are bloodied from scooping the sand back into the hourglass. I cannot save the Prior. 

​

Withered roots and weathered looks, shoots full of cyanide. Dying in the living room

by the window sill. Shooting glances at the sun, but he shrouds himself in clouds

because he knows how to prioritize.