I've gone soft, she said.
I sag in the middle like a rotting plank of wood,
Discoloration dapples me, lean in closer.
The tears have sunk inside me and made a home,
Softening me up, the molds follow.
I am rotting from the inside out, and
As I soften the bugs move in,
Chewing tunnels under my skin,
I collapse under my own weight.
Where is the me who stood so firm in what she knew?
I was rigid like a sword, a road,
Cold enough to freeze dew on my skin.
I think, she said, I carried it for too long,
That which I knew then and still know now.
Some things are so rotten,
They taint with their touch.