Fragile
is a word we use
for gossamer or butterflies.
But not for her.
Thin-skinned
doesn’t say enough;
she’s an overripe tomato
fermenting in the August sun.
Just a careless poke or jostle
and she’ll split right open
spilling slippery seeds
bright red and warm,
her final burst as silent
as her long decay.
The butterflies, at least,
benefit from her
degeneration.
They slake their thirst
at the puddle
of things she left
too long
unsaid.
