she steps on another one this morning - soft, defeated underfoot. a thing of an orange. a persimmon, or what once was one. it looks like guts, or a smashed up heart, only a tad too ripened for its own good. what used to be alive, now...just rotting matter

it bursts like guilt, its pulp clinging to the pavement in a patient, glistening ache. she stands there a while, watching the slow spread of the thick flesh between the cracks, clinging onto the nooks the way sins seep into memory. the air smells faintly sweet, almost apologetic, like something that wants to be forgiven but didnt know where to begin, or couldnt

there was a time that she would have seen meaning in this—would have whispered a prayer, her heart full of contentment and gratitude as she would lift her gaze to the sky, thoughts of her Lord filling her heart. now she just keeps walking, somewhere she stil remembers, but she brushes it off and drifts off, her shoe tacky with residue. the stickiness follows her through the day, each step reminding her that even the small, soft things resist being ignored

inside, her mind is 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

---

← Newer posts Older posts →