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Picking a flower isn't plucking it
daintily,but digging your nails
into grit, getting down to roots,
popping white hairs like zits,
pulling slow like torture, cringing
as you rip that crusty scab
of earth the sun baked,
snapping, breaking, wrenching,
the last bit of stalk, spilling
sticky green blood over your hands;
then for good measure,
squeezing the wound raw, releasing
disturbingly intoxicating scents,
the hidden earthy fragrances
that only surface upon evisceration;
leaving a very noticeable hole
in your neighbor's yard,
your grandma's window box,
your church's floral display;
and finally,
filling that lonely, barren
vase next to your bed.