Sensitive

I no longer play in the meadows and I fear swinging with the other girls. I’m like branches with fruit.

I am weak, so weak that the smell of roses made me faint during the siesta, when I went down to the garden. And a simple air that comes on the wind or the drop of blood evening has in its last throb on the heavens, disturb me, fill me with sorrow. With a single look from my man, if he were hard with me tonight, I could die.

Gabriela Mistral