Wilting Inside
I am the wildflowers you picked
That your mother told you to leave for the other little girls to enjoy
Wilting in your pocket
Bruised against your thigh
I do not belong here
I want to dig my feet into the earth
Turn my face towards the sun
Listen as the bee whispers his gossip
Swish my petal soft skirt in the wind
Scatter myself across the land
Instead I am crumbling into dust
Drinking water spiked with bleach
Destined to be scraped from under your fingernails
Imprisoned in the dark cracks of your clothes
I do not belong here
Britt Reading is an avid reader and part-time writer. She lives in Berkeley California.
