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The flowerbed will never be the same, no matter how many weeds I kill. The buttercups already forced

their way through the mulch I laid and I don’t know how to leave well enough alone.

I dumped bleach on the dandelions behind the deck, petals melting into the grass, anemic yellow; I’ve

done this before. It’s still a weed if it’s wanted, killing off the other flowers all the same.

They’ve never granted my wishes anyway.

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