Dead

My plant is dead. I killed it. I'm not even sure how. My dad thinks I may have watered it too much and my stepmom thinks I may have rotted the roots. Whatever the case may be, I'm a murderer.


I love flowers, I always have. I love smelling their sweet perfume as I kneel beside them. I love the vibrant color and vivacity they bring to a home or yard. The problem is that no matter what I do, I end up killing them. Even cacti. I had a hot pink one as a child that I watered too much. The little baby cacti squished and water squirted out all over the place when I touched them. I vowed not to try again.


Then I got the brilliant idea to paint a pot and put a beautiful primrose in it while I went away to college. School got busy and I neglected it. It didn't survive long.


In this last attempt I promised myself I wouldn't let it die. Within a day of bringing it home, the flowers were withering and wilting. It only lasted two weeks at most.


Am I so evil? Are my looks enough to kill? Do flowers wilt in my presence like some dastardly villain in a Disney movie?


I don't know what my problem is. Flowers grow well enough in the wild, with no one to take care of them. Even in the desert, with hardly any water and the sun beating down on them day after day, they flourish. Yet under my hand all they find is death.


Maybe I'll try again someday. I just feel guilty every time I bring a plant home and promise it a bright future only to kill it through neglect or by trying too hard.


All I want is a beautiful garden filled with glorious buds and flowers for me to look at and smell. I think I either need to marry a man who loves gardening or one who has a very large pocketbook so we can hire a gardener. It's the only hope I have left.