I'd want to be a ****. I don't
want to be a colorful blooming
thing, fanning my delicate
petals, waiting to be plucked
and pinned for others'
viewing pleasure. I would be
a ****, no better
than anyone else, a flower
so persistent
I'm a nuisance. Go ahead.
Cover me in concrete.
I'll grow through it, cracking
the black, my face reaching
up for the sun.