A letter to the girl who lives on the Second Floor with Seventeen Potted Plants in her Balcony

by 23:40 4 comments

to the girl who lives on the second floor
with seventeen potted plants in her balcony,
I hope you’re doing okay. 
I know you aren’t though,
I see your plants dying.

The sunflowers don’t get
enough sunshine anymore,
you keep them on your bedside table,
and forget to draw the curtains.

You haven’t watered your lilies
in the past six weeks,
and the roses don’t get enough space
to breathe.

I’m sorry your orchids are dead,
though I don’t understand why
you still continue to water them
day after day every single day.

the other day,
you told me that you lived through your plants,
that when you were 7 and they asked you to draw a scenery,
you did not paint mountains and sunshine
and lakes and flowers like the others did,
you painted a desert instead,
layers and layers and layers of sand,
and nothing but a sun that refused to shine,
because that’s what the inside of your house looked like,
on most days,
raw, honest, and empty.

I’m sorry you thought your house wasn’t poetry enough,
that when your grandmother passed away,
you parents started sleeping in different rooms,
the beds grew further apart,
the bed sheets weren’t changed as often,
and the two violet flower vases in the centre of your house,
remained empty for three whole years.

dinner table chatter was replaced with BBC muted on the TV,
breakfast table felt a lot like too many empty chairs,
and not enough plates to fill the emptiness with.

the sofa, once warm with all your Saturday night memories,
remained undusted for a year,
comedy night specials and Indian Idol repeats were replaced with
unending silences and unwritten poetry.

I’m sorry that when your friends went bowling and ice skating,
you stayed behind to give company to all the furniture in your house,
that fell so vast that you thought it would swallow you whole.

When old men in identical black suits with a briefcase each,
rang your doorbell with mountains worth of sheets,
you couldn’t decide in whose room you should go and hide inside,
so you decided to stay behind and stare at them tear your house away,
bit by bit in custody battles and fights for alimony,
you weren’t aware that it is under the jurisdiction of the law,
to decide in whose house you’d find home in.

I’m sorry that in all their battles for custody,
you parents lost the war.
casualties of war aren’t always things.

When you had to plant a seed for a school project,
you decided to grow a cactus in your room,
because that’s the only plant you thought would succeed.

I’m sorry that when you grew up,
your idea of self-care became potting plants in your balcony,
skipping meals to water the lilies,
writing letters to the sunflowers on their seeds,
avoiding people to have conversations with the roses,
and treating your orchids as your therapist. 

The letterbox outside your building is overflowing now,
I’m afraid that you haven’t paid your electricity bill in three weeks.
the sun doesn’t shine as bright on the second floor’s balcony,
and there isn’t enough rain to save your lilies.

I’m sorry your plants are dying.
The sunflowers don’t get
enough sunshine anymore,
You haven’t watered your lilies
in the past six weeks,
and the roses don’t get enough space to breathe.

I hope you’re doing okay.
I know you aren’t though.



  1. My heart poured out to read this, so much emotion, so many details that make me paint a picture of each incident in my mind. Your posts are so empathetic, a very rare quality in today's me me and me world.