Wish Logic

by Holly Brazzle

Image credit: Natalia Luchanko on Unsplash

Dear You (the One Who Pretends to Be the Grown-Up),

I think I was made from dandelions—

those yellow puffballs that aren’t flowers

but still try their best to bloom.

I used to blow on them and make wishes.

Now I mostly just hold my breath.

I didn’t mean to be a mess.

I was just too full,

and the feelings leaked out my mouth

like juice from the bottom of the lunchbox.

You always say I’m too much.

Too loud.

Too silly.

Too hungry for things you don’t have names for.

You use words like

dysregulated

and coping mechanism.

I use words like

ouch

and

stop that

and

can I have a hug?

I know you light candles now.

Drink that green swamp water.

Say "we are safe" like it’s a bedtime spell.

But your breath still jumps like it stepped on a Lego.

Your shoulders still duck like someone’s about to yell.

Your belly still feels like a haunted house.

I live there.

I sleep behind your ribs.

I keep a flashlight.

I still want pancakes.

Sticky ones.

With syrup that runs down my wrists.

With no one looking at me like I’m too much.

I remember things you hide in drawers.

The red bike.

The door that closed too slowly. 

The name we don’t say.

The bear with one eye that you threw away

but I still hear him crying sometimes.

You call me a part.

A phase.

A scribble.

But I’m not pretending. 

I’m the one who kept blinking.

Even when it hurt.

Last night I made sadness laugh.

Called it Picklehead and dared it to chase me.

Even the mad one giggled.

Even the one who never talks.

I don’t think we need to throw anyone away.

Not the one who hides.

Not the one who yells.

Not even me.

Maybe we’re not broken.

Maybe we’re just a field of dandelions—

some yellow and loud,

some floating away,

some still holding their breath,

waiting for someone to wish.

You don’t have to fix me.

Just sit down.

I'll scoot over.

You can have half the blanket.

And the red juice box.

The one we used to hide under the bed.

Love,

Me

(the fast-feet one,

the laugh that slipped out anyway,

the bloom that won’t stop blooming)

***

Holly Brazzle

Holly Brazzle writes in the space where grit and tenderness share a root. Through the programs, volunteers, and passionate staff of the Colorado Fourteeners Initiative, she learned that high places are fragile and worth protecting. Alpine wildflowers–short-lived, wind-bent, impossibly bright–taught her that beauty and survival are often the same act. Her work is an attempt to bloom in thin air.