Golden bottles

Should've known better

than to bury the seeds beneath,

encapsulated by the glass.

Gentle but shard,

can still scar.

The soft bristles whisper my name,

quietly in my ear, they tickle 

"run, run far away," they say.

My friend Steven grows them in his pots,

all full of leaves and apricots.

He judges my ways and critiques my flow,

I should've known.