i love dragonfruit
he mumbles,
a sheepish smile curling his lips.

he was wonderful.
absolutely wonderful,
so wonderful it stole the air from my lungs.
my eyes crinkled in awe, in amusal —
dragonfruit?
his favorite fruit is dragonfruit?

i’d heard of apples,
of oranges,
of berries that stain fingers,
of mango’s golden syrup,
kiwi’s sharp bite,
avocado’s heavy green.
but dragonfruit?
unheard of.
absurd.
perfect.

i tried it once,
just a bite.
a muted flavor,
a sweetness barely there,
and somehow that silence
tasted like comfort.
no citrus sting,
no sugared burst,
just stillness.
just home.
him.

i kept buying it,
one after another.
never enough.
addicted
to that underwhelming sweetness,
that quiet flavor of nothing.

but time peeled back the fruit.
the cons arrived,
loud and ugly.
the thick skin,
so much peel for so little flesh.
and the flavor turned against me,
bland, inconsistent,
driving me mad.
he drove me mad.

so i stopped eating it.
but i missed it,
missed him,
missed the comfort,
aching for what never truly fed me.

months later i saw them again —
stacked high,
royal pink skins,
green tips curved like crowns,
majestic, dangerous,
beautiful, breathtaking.
and i thought:
maybe just one more.

so i peeled it,
hands trembling with want,
lifted the pale flesh to my mouth,
took a bite.

and sighed
into the hollow taste of nothing.

i hate dragonfruit.

I’m suspended between the moment,
I first tasted my tears.
And the last time I felt a warm breeze.
How is that fair?
The minutes always pass too fast,
leaving bullet holes filled with loose memories
And the songs I listened to at thirteen.
I can’t move forward,
Only backward—until I reach the end.
Take my days as quickly as you’d like,
But let me live them.
Stop reminding me
How little I could have left.

Two things in life are certain—
we all die,
and life can’t wait to get us there.
Some people die at 25.
We just bury them at 82.
Some people call family blood,
but all we do is bleed
our ancestors’ tempers.
Some people ask about love,
but we only teach them grief.
We only show them empty chairs,
the echoes of names nobody calls anymore.
Out of 8 billion,
only some people
walk like they know what this life means.
The rest of us?
We just awaken the possibility of being uncertain.
Some people think knowing is power.
But I know too much,
and it just makes my hands feel heavier.
Nobody protests wisdom.
Nobody fights the ones
who stare too long into the deep,
who drown in their own thoughts
before the sea ever touches their skin.
This is the weight of knowing.
Not of God,
not of heaven,
not of some great, glowing purpose—
I already know my purpose, I always have.
This is about the spaces in between.
The living. The surviving. The being.
The moments where you feel yourself slipping
between who you were
and who you have to be.