In a house that never stopped burning, there was a small plant by the window.
One side of the house smelled of petrol. The other kept matches close at hand.
So the plant learned to live on ash instead of rain.
It no longer stretched toward the light. It no longer grew new leaves. All its strength was spent simply trying not to wither.
And, somewhere in between, a small stem reaches upward, asking only for light.
Instead, it receives smoke.
Smokes settle everywhere.
It settles on the green leaves, on the soil, on the little buds that were meant to bloom.
The plant cannot run from the fire.
Its roots are tied. It’s home is the very thing that burns.
So, it stands there, watching sparks drift through the air, feeling its edges turn brown.
Some days, it wishes for rain.
Some days, it wishes the fire would stop being gentle and burn itself out completely.
Because waiting can hurt more than burning.
The fire never asks the plant whether it wants to be a part of the burning.
And, every season, it loses another piece of itself.
A leaf. A color. A little more life.
Everyone looked at the plant and wondered why it seemed so pale.
Yet every morning, it stood in the same place, half-wilted, half-alive, watching the light enter through a cracked window.
People passing by still called it a plant.
And, when the smoke clears for a moment, the plant looks at its blackened leaves and wonders,
how something can survive for so long,
while feeling already gone.
