daisies where we met, daffodils for kisses. roses for december, peonies for fall. (peonies die in the summer.) sometimes i'm sorry weeds choke out sunflowers, but lies spring up like morning glory and priorities change like dandelions, and your blown wishes haven't worked since you turned ten.
weeds have been weaving themselves into my hair and our story for days, and sometimes i think they're too deeply rooted to pull. i've been plucking petals and leaves in a half-hearted attempt to stay clean, i've been hosing off my muddy fingers and polishing my ring all week, and it feels almost sad to see my skin so clear.
everything gets messier with heat, but i'll still gently tug at the weeds. i'll still sprinkle water on my face and call it baptism, and i'll always wash my hands of the roots. because the last thing i need is m a s o c h i s t tracked in mud on my forehead.
