Burning Doors

The door slammed And the vase broke into shattered irises on the already stained floor. Sighing I took off my shoes dirtied by the mud, as not to dirty the rug, just to find my feet still stinking after all that way. I planned on smelling those flowers, but vibration got the best of them, and instead I’m left picking up shards of petals that stick into the rug. Colored specs like sprinkles on my knees. I try to pick them up, and off, without cutting myself. I guess you don’t need flowers to know how a heart grows roots, and vines, and thorns that are hard to remove. Even in pieces. It tears at your clothes as you wear it around. And at your face, as it rips them open while you're left hoping it breaks and shatters on the floor like a vase. While your face bleeds honesty everywhere people’s horrified stares feel like warm thunder, tumbling down in chunks. It makes doors slam, and flowers quiver.