I once said I was a cactus needing little love and tenderness hardy; a survivor used to droughts of love I store the remains deep inside for the days to come. I wasn't born a cactus prickly and guarded subborn and resistant unhardened plants die in the cold houseplants to the whims of their keepers becoming scenery to be glossed over again and again till your soil dries your leaves dull and limp crunching when they should not another dead houseplant
