I picked extra wildflowers on the side of an open field to lay on your grave. I couldn’t choose the prettiest one, so I chose them all -I guess I’m selfish in that way. It’s splashing blue, green, magenta, yellow. Screaming colors until my mind goes numb. It’s all the same, anymore. Watch the lines in my mothers face sink when I tell her that I never make a birthday wish about myself. It’s just how I am. Everyone tells me how their heart breaks for me- and I tell them that birds fly south in winter, but some stay. Some can’t leave home. Some can face the winter. I’m just like them. Tomorrow starts new life. Spring breaths through those open fields and tells every living thing to open their eyes- it’s time for a new day. Those wildflowers tuck themselves next to you in the dirt. They make a new home and think of all the different ways in which the sun can bath them from this new direction. You see, I don’t think this season blooms the same. Just how no seed is the same. It cracks through the surface different every time and the tired ones still show their faces. Just like me. I’ll keep picking those flowers until you’re overflowing with Lilly’s. And one day I’ll look at the winter break around the spot I grew a garden and think, “after all this time they still bloomed”. AMT