My yellow, bruised rinds
are peeled and opened.
Displayed like a flower,
if one cares to look.
Past the bruises and crescent moons
of those who touched but didn’t care
to split me open, work me out.
Reveal the sweetness that was covered by tough skin
and a tangy stare.
Sweet fruit revealed to patience.
A taste that will never flee your mouth.
A scent that can drive you mad,
but only if you let it.
You mistook my bruises for rot.
They were made by people like you.
People who have learned to judge by feel.
Picking us up and holding us in the light.
Examining every flaw, picking you apart
just to see you shrivel
You are more than your exterior.
Beneath your bumpy skin, your cold shell,
lies the most addictive drug they haven’t learned
to taste yet.