I spent the fourteenth summer of my life begging.
In the aisles of the supermarket
I found I needed to be the mother of a cactus,
My own mother said plants were a bigger responsibility
Than one would first assume.
In the overwhelming bustle of the summer fair,
I decided I needed to become a parent to a baby rabbit.
My mother warned me that I could not handle the responsibility.
I became the proud owner of both,
Pouring every ounce of myself into each.
But, I seemed to have mismatched ideologies on water.
The cactus drowned,
And the rabbit dried up.
My mother was right.
A lot of things died that day.