Two-hundred and Seventy-six: Third-grade Tulips

In my dreams I wrestle third-grade tulips and scrawl midget graffiti on opaque walls while thistle down falls on Blyton mornings. I strangle amaranth guilt, stroking cats that aren’t mine, decapitating dolls I know I’ll only lose.  I braid hopes, folding in shadows like ribbons as maroon lace simmers on the cliffs of my id.