I don’t want it.

To be a weed,

To be a leech,

To be utter vermin in a field of beauty.

A field of flawless mistakes.

A field of Aphrodiate’s favorites.

I want to be the wildflowers kissing the breeze,

Or the soft blades of grass embracing all,

Or at the very least the wind.

I want to be unknown and known, beautiful.

I do not care for beauty.

I want to not care for beauty,

And if one day I don’t need to wish for it,

That is the day my wildflower blooms.