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The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit.
Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale
face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide.  None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small  
crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there.
Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be.
That first bite.
The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion?
Put her before you. naked.

being poetic sometimes just comes to you naturally. the words flow through you onto the paper in a beautiful rythmic way and they paint an emotional landscape of thoughts and feelings but then someone sees it finds all the flaws all the things that made you feel it was yours that made you feel unique ruined. you feel exposed, hurt, scared. you hide from yourself you won't let your muse out for fear of having your art distroyed altered and corrupted. so you change you pick up a brush you dip it in the paint and you let the flow begin again. your strokes are thrown at the canvas where you feel the anger, your strokes become detailed and gentle when you feel happiness or calm emotions. but then someone sees it they see only the flaws they tear it apart and you along with it. where the lines are jagged from your anger and disappointment they only see uneveness and imperfection. where the shading is uneven from the sadness and the pain they only see imperfection they can't see what precious beauty lay deep inside the painting and the use there words to hurt you to make you feel like you were wrong like your not doing good enough. so you swear never to touch a brush again you will never let yourself flow with emotions like that ever again you tell yourself. but then you change you learn to play the piano you learn to make your fingers glide across the keys in the same was a figure skater glides across the ice. and with each key stroke you heart beats a note that flows out through the piano like blood through your vains. it feels natual it feels good it makes you feel alive you let go. everything comes out everything you feel and think flows through your fingers the notes of your heart beat expressed through the notes of the piano. the feel of the ivory on your finger tips becomes unnoticable you beome one with the flow of the music your heart beats in time with the rhythm of you soul of your music. and then someone hears it they come in and they take a seat and for a while they listen then they stand up and without a word they leave the room and you continue to play you let your flow continue you pay no mind to the person who just left the room. they return they have brought people with them and they sit quitely and say nothing. you stop playing you stand nod to each aknowlegeing their presense and then leave because the music wasn't for them it wasn't for them to judge even though as you leave you hear the people talk about how amazing they felt you were you no longer care they approval or disapproval means nothing its no longer about your art being good or being acceptable its about being...