What phantom water can revive
the remnants of these roots?
On the brink of being alive,
breathe deep sweet air.

My sugar-prone sweet tooth
gluttonizes punishment
like their flowers move
to bathe in abrasive sunlight.

Depetaled now—barren—
where can they turn?
The bright glow they crave
parches tongues—burns.

The plants in my room are dying
and it's your fault as much as mine.