Closed Doors

As a child, I saw my eldest sister walk through a sliding glass door like it wasn't there

She didn't intend to, but the glass shattered all the same into a shower of prisms

I remember the bright bits of glass glittering in the sunlight and the plethora of tiny bleeding cuts all over her body

They were just scratches though, she survived

It’s a moment frozen in my memory, those glittering bits

Opening doors is not much fun, it’s just too ordinary

Bursting through doors, obliterating them into little bits, kicking them down

Asking “Door? What’s a door?” 

That’s fun