every once in a while
i am reminded that
you are not exactly
who i once thought you were.
(like how a dandelion blooms a bright yellow,
and one becomes two, three, becomes twenty, a hundred—
they ask for more, more, more—
and you dont quite remember what the grass looked like without them,
but they never seem to leave you alone.)
and sometimes flowers are weeds—
and weeds can be pretty too—
it's just that when the dandelions grow back every spring,
they're uprooted into the compost again.
(something tells me
it’s better to not watch you
sprinkle seeds of doubt over my lawn,
but i'm still afraid that one day
i will forget what it is like to admire a flower.)
the garden of my mind
still remembers the impressions you’ve made in its soils,
still remembers the vibrant colours,
however faded and spoiled they are now,
because it knows that there is something so beautiful
about the things that no one can understand.
(i want to remember
those golden fields of hope planted in my mind,
how they stretched over mundane grass plains.)
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 3:26 PM UTC
every once in a while
i am reminded that
you are not exactly
who i once thought you were.
(like how a dandelion blooms a bright yellow,
and one becomes two, three, becomes twenty, a hundred—
they ask for more, more, more—
and you dont quite remember what the grass looked like without them,
but they never seem to leave you alone.)
and sometimes flowers are weeds—
and weeds can be pretty too—
it's just that when the dandelions grow back every spring,
they're uprooted into the compost again.
(something tells me
it’s better to not watch you
sprinkle seeds of doubt over my lawn,
but i'm still afraid that one day
i will forget what it is like to admire a flower.)
the garden of my mind
still remembers the impressions you’ve made in its soils,
still remembers the vibrant colours,
however faded and spoiled they are now,
because it knows that there is something so beautiful
about the things that no one can understand.
(i want to remember
those golden fields of hope planted in my mind,
how they stretched over mundane grass plains.)
it is dishonest to hate something you once held dear