Planted, Placeholder.

The pustules of flower arrangements bloomed

like unwanted pimples all over her second-floor

apartment. All bargain bin floral patterns

on pillows and a pistachio colored carpet

serving as some form of greenery.

Long gone were her days of prancing around

her mothers Pollock-like garden of potted plants,

pebbled paths, and wildflowers.

A place that still made sense

when you could look at the big picture.

Now at 27, the reality of things had penetrated

her bones and although she persisted that she

didn’t miss the outside, she knew the pain in her

body was like an unwanted party guest that she

had no choice but to host.

Life did not take pity on her, so she had to settle

for the peonies and painted daisies as interpreted

by some artist, who, like her,

would have their life’s work sold at half price.

Thrifted prizes to place around her overpriced loft.

It was her way of growing a garden from inside her prison.

It was this or taking the little green pills.

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