If I were a
ripe fig
and you
split me open with your delving thumbs
to see the
sweet and sticky flesh inside,
and feel
the grit of seeds between your teeth,
could any
of the those spilt ever swell and sprout
to grow a
big, lolloping, female tree,
like an old
grey aunty with flabby arms?
I can’t
figure out what fruit I am to you?
You halve
me like some desert pear.
To you, I’m
the fruiting body of the monstera plant
with
stinging spikes hidden
in the
fuzzy folds
that
paralyze your tongue with a tiny, perfect pain,
though I
always dreamed of being more like an
ordinary
apple, that, cleanly dissected,
reveals a
star.
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