It sounds silly when I type it and read it back to my self, but I'm afraid of my watermelon. It's alone in the garden, but its presence strikes an ominous chord all the same.
It taunts me. Maybe it's ripe. Maybe it isn't. Maybe it will just up and rot.
I'm scared to pick it.
I'm scared to let it stay on the vine.
One would think that knowing it's the only one of its kind in my garden would give me comfort, but the thought petrifies me.