I’ve killed plants before.
It’s not that I don’t have good intentions; I just forget about them.

“Don’t worry,” he said, when I brought this up.
“It’s a cactus. It doesn’t need much.”

The cactus was charming, like a green spiky ping-pong ball sitting in a little terracotta pot.
The spikes were so small and soft that they felt like fuzz.
I took his present as a show of good faith that he trusted me to take care of something.

Then I went online, and I found this: “A cactus can suffer from overwatering, and may crack...
Death by slow dehydration can also be a problem, because people are too terrified to give
their plants what they need.”

Great. I can’t water it, and I can’t not water it.

Love is a cactus.

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