The Splinter

The wardrobe refuses to budge. No matter how hard I pull at the knobs,

The glue has settled into its pores. A splinter lodges in my thumb,

Evoking a glistening bead of red that mixes with the salt from my brows.

I was told a wardrobe was the portal

to slip the chains that bound my thoughts.

A whirlpool of gray and brown that cannot be 

sculpted into a vase full of 

peonies. 

Roses.

Lilacs and daffodils.

Yellows and greens swirl together into the blurry, harmonious image of a field

that lies beyond heavy locked doors with brass handles.

The creak of a floorboard startles me, forcing a 

Wisp from my soul to emerge in a watery torrent.

I have been clutching the rusted handle in my hand,

Allowing a stream of deep maroon to grace the muddy earth below my feet.