I got your special soil.
The instructions were scary:
handle only with gloves, do not breathe in.
But if that was what you needed....
I draped long strands of coloured beads
around your pots, one each,
set crystals on top of the earth
and bright statuettes nearby.
I conversed with you,
tended you with Reiki,
gave you both water and wine.
It wasn’t my fault.
I even brought you inside at night
to keep you safe from nibbling gekkos.
When I stopped, for the dirt on the floor,
I used magick instead. Not one bite!
But after a certain point
you not only failed to thrive,
you developed wet black marks
up your sides, a kind of rot.
So I took action. Now your carcases
lie in my cast iron cauldron
waiting to be ceremonially burned.
I’ll accord you that respect.
Was it because I never
took things one step further?
Did you crave intimacy,
that ultimate merging of selves?
Yes, I know your sacred purpose,
but I’m sorry, I don’t do that.
I’m such an addict! Therefore
restraint is my middle name.
I’m sorry you sickened
but I didn’t do it. Tomorrow
we shall have the burning time.
I won’t be sorry to finally get it done.
April PAD Challenge #3: Apology and/or Unapologetic.
Also submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #38
Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your posts as much as possible.