In response to Photo-Fiction #12
Don’t touch me lest I bust,
splintering into fragments,
a million tiny pieces of me,
that won’t let itself be put together.
Don’t probe me,
no digits need invade my space,
lest I be deconstructed into all my constituent parts,
and all that is left,
is what’s left of a shattered self.
Don’t touch me lest I become aerosolized around you,
and float on a breeze to a better place,
better than this that would have left me for dead,
in the quiet clearing,
sun streaming thought the trees,
I though these things only occurred under the veil of night.
This invasion of self,
the forceful taking of something precious,
When happenings took place that leave you,
not quite broken,
but too sensitive to be touched,
lest you burst…and there is nothing left,
but the beautiful memory,
of a rainbow you used to be.