She never spread her secrets
but kept them locked up,
an ornamental pod,
sleeping through the seasons.
She could’ve numbed them all,
a tiny incision oozing relief
feeding them through the winter
with a steady, icy drip.
Instead, fingers dangle into nothingness
like the chubby legs of toddlers
flailing flabby at the local lake,
she curled grayish-green,
Patiently shriveling,
swallowed her own
glaucous seeds
and died.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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