it burst like guilt, its pulp clinging to the pavement in a patient, glistening ache. she stood there a while, watching the flesh spread thickly between cracks, clinging onto the nooks the way sins seep into memory. the air smelled faintly sweet, almost apologetic, like something that wanted to be forgiven but didnt know where to begin, or couldnt
there was a time she would have seen meaning in this—would have whispered a prayer, heart full of contentment and gratitude as she would lift her gaze to the sky, her Lord fills her heart. now she just kept walking, her shoe tacky with residue. the stickiness followed her through the day, each step reminding her that even the small, soft things resist being ignored
inside, her mind was a room with all the windows closed. the air thick with unspoken prayers, half-remembered verses, the voice she keeps silencing. she tells herself shes tired. that the world is too loud. that her Lord will understand if she just sleeps a little longer, hides a little deeper in the covers
but some nights, when she turns off the light, she can feel Him still waiting—not angry, not gone—just quietly there, like a heartbeat she forgot she had. the ache is too much.
and in that quiet yet messy dark, before the next morning’s even messier noise, she swears she can smell persimmons again: ripe, ruined, yet unbearably alive
