Cracked

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.