podrida

Podrida. There’s a flower in the garden, its face turned to the sun, petals still glowing, a faint shimmer in the light. But look closer. Time is whispering secrets, slowly pulling it apart. Roots buried deep, but they’re fading, crumbling in silence. On the surface, it’s whole, it’s fine. But inside, it’s soft, losing its strength, weakening each day. A touch, just a breeze, and the petals— they fall, disappear like dust, like lost memories. What seemed strong, solid, lasting— it’s all a lie. Fragile threads holding together something already gone. Life, like the flower, pretends. But it’s breaking, slowly, turning to ash with the smallest push. Podrida. Not just a flower, but everything we thought was real.