Towards the dark,
the back of my mind,
is where I digest
your loose words that fumble with mine.
freedom intertwining with need
weaving with love
attaching with greed
strands of this and that forming ribbons
streaming out of my head;
my hands tuck them neatly
one behind my ear
another beneath my tongue.
why, I’d be happier eating canned dandelions
they are known to disperse exponentially,
and grow they shall underneath my ribcage
forming ribbons
that will shoot out of my head
contentedly,
happily
untucked.
