I don't know if any of this has ever really been done, Smoking dandelions.
They taste like piss and taxidermied rats in a postmortem dance; doing the Marionette's Will on your tongue. When smoking dandelions.
In somewhere you're not supposed to be, with someone you're not sure if you're still with. Smoking dandelions.
When you're cried-dry, cracked, and cheaply tattooed eyelids feel peeled off, and your face begins to blur. Smoke dandelions.
When his purple overgrown and curled fingernails pinch just above the root to make sure it doesn't stop taking in air. With your head snapped back flat against the grass, letting it stain your already cheaply dyed hair. Bite gently down, careful not to snap the stem, then gingerly Pierce and stitch your lips into the shape of a kiss, make a wish like you've been told to do so since you were young and did not know that wishes will just be thrown away., and then whistle. Like little fairies and fae, the white seedlings float up as fragile glass, yet soft as moldy velvet aardvarks, now just a kid's-room-closet dust farmer, whistle as they carry your wish upward. Rise, then like torn old shades, flick and roll your eyes closed so not to see your wish go higher than yourself.
And smile, for just, no reason Smoking dandelions.
In Somewhere you're not supposed to be.
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