i’m a weed, she’s a rose

I called you at 4am when I knew you’d be in bed.

Just because I couldn’t say everything I wanted to-

with that voice echoing behind mine and shaking my existence.


I left a message, and all I said was that I was thinking about you.

And that lately my dog has been eating dandelions and it makes me kind of sad.

And how for a minute, I wondered if you’d eat roses if I gave them to you.


Would you get rid of every petal as you grit your teeth along the velvety like silk?

Throwing the stems and all their thorns towards the gum ridden sidewalk?

As you delicately step your white converses on top of the remains?


When I hung up, all I could think about is who determines what flowers are special.

And that maybe I was just upset because I understand what it’s like to be called a weed.

Contagious and common, always put down because I lack value in other people’s eyes.


You spray me with your herbicides, you drown me in your poison.

Not thinking that I give life to the soil I rest upon.

Not thinking that I have any use, any purpose, anything to offer.


I didn’t go to school Friday, but I stuffed your locker with dandelions.

I stuck them in your overdue library books, firmly pressed as they leave words forever stained.

In hopes that you would look at them differently.



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