I pop a pomegranate seed. It bleeds, Delicate fuchsia delight, Mineral scented, warm, bright, Full of nectar and promise (now wasted)
I pop another one, In a soft cove on my arm- A slight dip between two veins - And watch the blushing drop Edge closer to my elbow. Stop.
A third time, With the fury of fear Tiptoeing listlessly in my mind, Like raindrops on a rooftop. It is sweet, and ******, A waste of time but an act of god Nonetheless.
I crave the sound and texture of it, So a fourth time comes around. By now, the citrus is overpowering But I keep going, For the sake of purity, For the sake of the shock of vibrance On deathly pale skin.
When my arm is covered in juice, I give up. There's no sense in envying the wasted.