i wish for the same thing on everysingle puff of air.
knowing it will never come true,
i keep pulling up green, sticky stems by their roots anyway,
blowing until every feather is gone and i’m out of breath.
now i stop breathing on the weeds.
i bite their downy heads off and swallow them instead,
fluffy clouds being crammed down my throat,
drier than cinnamon and less sweet,
a dull cottony flavor caught in my heavy, angry teeth,
wishes choking me and being forced down into my belly,
as if i need to hide anything else inside of me.
i bite and chew and swallow until i can’t breathe,
or wish for anything else,
or do anything except grow dandelion trees
until their branches climb out of my mouth and nose and ears
and reflect in my eyes.


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