I picked a rose and stepped on it

I picked a rose and stepped on it, it looked crushed, and I snake crawled into my veins,

I felt myself getting colder and venom wrapping my cells in chains. My pupils grew callus, my jaw got stiff, red crawled into my eyes, a gurgling sound came out of my throat and it may have slipped a cry, I flexed my arms, I swung my shoulders, and slammed my fist on the ground, convulsing and rolling, and drulling, all that’s in my head is pound pound pound, crushed rose, and I stepped on it

As I was druling and thrashing my chin on the dirt, I saw a blade, a grassy blade, that, caused me pause. I held my breath, slowed dawn my pulse, but I couldn’t control my claws, I reached for it and I scratched it, but it mostly dodgded my swing, then I quickly planted my hands in the dirt , and tried to stay still and not move a thing. And a warm wind blew and brought me a smell that would tell me that this grass wasn’t a piece of plastic it was real, and though it was no flower, it was alive, I shouldn’t destroy it, I neaded to heal. To heal. You just cannot tell.