The Dandelion Effect

When we were small,
you picked me flowers,
and I laughed
because your fistful of colors
was made up of weeds and leaves,
and overflowed with bugs
that bit your fleshy pink hands;
you ran home crying.

I wish I hadn't been such a tomboy,
maybe we could have had a
Kodak moment--
I should have leaned in
like a chubby little angel
and kissed your cheek.

But I've always been better
at sorries than thank yous,
and I've always been best
at making boys cry.

And sometimes I wonder
if all the men who've bought me roses
with Hallmark attachments
and unchaste intent
have been punishment for rejecting
the only honest bouquet
I've ever received.