Weeds

We are painted clovers / who grow anxious / at the sight of lovers and little girls / with petals in their hair. / We are like daisies stepped on / by rubber soles and padded heels waiting while bees flock to tulips instead, / like muted dandelions / plucked from the roots / and tossed aside with / barren heads and broken stems / mourning for their scattered leaves, / like ivy and creeping thistle eyes shut and whispering, / whimpering to themselves / a solemn hymn / praying to be left alone / for now.

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