Sometimes, I’m even an asshole to my houseplants, thinking how they aren’t “growing right”. How dare they lean toward the light, when I want them to grow straight up, branching perfectly from every stem, their woody trunks leading down to roots, that I keep bizarrely encased in plastic resin or earthenware pots. The nerve. What little tyrants we all are, imagining a world where molecules arrange themselves to our convenience and comfort. Oh, you believe in freedom, do you? Prove it. Let the wild lilac be rampant, disordered and unconfined. Let her send her creepers through your rib cage and let the grass beetles scurry through your hip bones. Then, only then, can you whisper to me about loving liberty.