My dandelion boy is the kind
That hangs on by thin, grey seeds.

Growing on the lip of each day’s cliff,  
My precariously-positioned 16-year-old leans.

He’s the kind that hangs on
By nothing more than breaths.

Amidst flowers born with all the right cells,
He just wants to be a normal kid.

What ruffles petals, pushes him,
And when their stems but bend,
He ends up broken.

My dandelion boy is the kind
That hangs on by dialysis and dreams.

The sun warms this high school junior,
But still, he only sleeps.