Ever since she was young, Dahlia wondered
about everything. She was
full of wonder, yet
somehow she felt less
than wonderful.
Less than.
Those words often stuck
with her like some
sort of treacherous taffy,
clinging to the every corner
of her mind.
Corners. She thought.
Why is it that the corners
are most easily cracked?
Like dried Winter lips
or cuticles.
It is as if the coming together—
the union—leaves them
that much more vulnerable.
This was a theme for Dahlia.
Why was it that she always
felt this exposed weakness,
this dependence,
whenever she came
together
with a new lover—
and then inevitably
came undone?
Leaving her more fragile than
when she began.
A heap on the floor—small
and wide-eyed—like
a child swimming
in his father's business suit.
Sleeves pouring over tiny hands,
so no one can reach them.
