Her possessor won’t let her grow beyond his conservative outlook. Her taproot is chained in the pot. Even her pale patches are decorations. Living among the plastic plants is choking. She’s denied sunny kisses. Rain’s romantic whisperings, she’s never exposed to such ecstasies. Her wound attracts insects. But she cannot allure any butterfly. Flowering is not even in her dream. Same sand. Same experience. A humdrum existence. If she’ll deviate from the fixed pattern, a callous trimmer is always ready. First published in Maltrop(Budding Light Press, Australia) Creative Writing Ink Monthly Contest (July 2020) winning poem