I kept breathing them in,

Until i was sick from the smell. 

Greedily, i stopped at every corner,

pulling them down to my face,

sucking them to me, knowing that

time works the way it should,

for these two weeks every year. 

I’d forgotten their charm,

like how my grandmother would call me home. 

And, like a scab i can’t stop picking,

I return to their smell. 

The way they are sickly and sweet,

And floral equals feminine, 

And nothing bad ever happens

when you are absorbed in their cloud.