Russell Justwrite 3

In the dark, dandelions are less like weeds than I am. In the dark, I imagine stems so thin the wind can break them being strong enough to life rocks. In the dark, there are streetlights that penetrate nothing but my skin, leave me open and glowing from the inside so it's impossible to hide anything but my voice. I bury it under piles of sand like I used to bury glowsticks when my cousins and I would play with them on the beach. We could never find them again, dug too many holes to count without at least six afternoons of standing, the sand branding the bottoms of your feet like lightning carving its name into the sky, leaving blue streaks on the white walls of your hotel room that are only white when the light is on and your eyes are as open as my body, cameras flashing morse code across my skin. I try to answer but my fingers have forgotten how to spell. My eyebrows can only lie. My voice is not a factor, and not even air can slip between the fingers across my lips. My mother spent months making this body, years tending to it, a dandelion planted with purpose. You tell me that a weed is only a flower where you don't want it to be. In the dark, I am more like a weed than your dandelion. I feel your breath across my cheeks, trying to blow all my wishes away.