To My Monstera,

To my Monstera’s roots,

I’m sorry I let your roots dry out thin.

They’ve grown so well till now,

Spreading and taking up deserved space,

Never once forgetting the sturdy seed they sprouted from.

I’m sorry I forgot our language.

Everytime I try to speak it, the words don’t slide off

As smooth as I’d like.

As smooth as I’d be proud of.

So I keep my mouth shut so as to

Not remind you of “your” “failure” for

Who And What And How I’ve become.

I’m sorry I don’t always answer your calls.

I only want to be caught in a good moment.

To spare you from hearing the uncertainty in my voice.

Bleakness on the other end of the line.

I’m sorry I don’t care or know about the things you care and know.

Call it a generational gap,

A cultural difference,

A language barrier,

Blame it on East vs. West.

Whatever you want to call it, it’s

Something that means we’re

Different, Separate, Unrelated,

Something that means

for as long as we live,

We’ll never be able to understand each other fully.

I’m sorry I cry about you in therapy.

I, too, want to grow big and strong but

I hate the sun and water and all the things

That I need to love to live.

I’m sorry I don’t take care of myself as well as you did.

Life’s so much easier when I have you to lay beside.

Your steadying presence and lulling

Pat-pat-pat on my back,

No words needed.

To my Monstera’s stems,

I’m sorry that you grew and grew and suddenly

Had to stop.

Brown rot overtaking your once lush green,

Shriveling, sucked-dry,

Gasping for the air that I can’t provide.

Nothing I can say will stop the blight.

I’m sorry that I stopped hanging out as much.

I let myself fall deeper and deeper in a thicket,

Fully pierced and thorned,

Unwilling to get up, I dwelled,

While you may have wondered where I was.

I’m sorry that I stopped asking how you were.

It’s not because I don’t care, I swear to you I do.

I guess small talk has never been my thing,

And I respect you more than to mutter an

Empty Generic Question or Witticism.

Given I lacked the energy to eat and brush my teeth,

I also lacked the energy for a real check-in,

And maybe saying how I was actually doing would feel

Nauseating. Too much, all at once.

To this day, I don’t really know why

I didn’t say anything at all.

I’m sorry if I’ve become less familiar,

In-and-out of sight, usually out of reach.

It hurts to think that my scent and touch once felt like home,

But now they’re akin to one of a stranger’s,

Whose pale fingers make you grimace at the sight.

I want to reach over to fix your hair,

But I know I don’t have the right.

To my Monstera’s leaves,

I’m sorry that I made you lose your shine.

You were unique for those swiss-cheese holes of yours

Each of which smiled big and wide to let the sun shine through and

Now they’re just holes, pockets of empty,

On a dead, gone body.

I’m sorry I call you names I don’t mean

And try to break up with you each time

I feel like I’m not worth the fight.

To lose you is to punish myself

And I’ve always had a knack for

Self-sabotage.

I’m not even sure what working on myself looks like,

When all I’ve known is

to like, but not love the way I am.

I’m sorry I give you the silent treatment.

I’m not trying to torture you,

I just lose the words when what I’m feeling

Is the first time I’ve felt that feeling in my entire life.

I’ve never experienced anything as intense as you,

I can’t even begin to put it in words as if I understand it

Cause I don’t.

Happiness, anger, surprise, hurt, love

All take on a new meaning when we’re together.

I’m sorry that I’m high-maintenance,

That I can’t ever drive to yours because it

Guarantees a panic attack or dissociative episode

When it’s time for me to go.

More than I dread leaving, I dread

You having bigger and better things to do,

Your life fuller,

Without me in the picture.

I know, I know, solitude is good, and

I should be able to sit with myself and

Most of the time, I can, except for when

My room feels colder, darker, less familiar without you in it,

My day longer,

Moments duller,

Everything lesser.

I’m sorry I lose control of myself

And my emotions

And I know I can’t blame everything on my BPD

Because that’s not fair to you

Or to me.

The way I get off-set and

Leave my body

Each time I get triggered is

Unfit, wholly unbecoming for a woman soon to be 21,

But I am powerless when my

Inner child decides to take over and

Punish you for all the times

She was punished, herself, for acting a

Child when expected to be an adult.

To My Monstera,

I’m sorry I left you outside overnight,

The cold killing you instantly, but

It’s not time for you to go yet.

With the deadweight hacked off,

You still have two healthy hardy green sprouts in-tact,

Both of which are able to spread and take up deserved space,

Never once forgetting the sturdy seed they sprouted from.