I am a year's supply of fruit,
and even though you have every peach
you could ask for,
I am rotten before you can appreciate what you sought.
I am flesh
and stem
and pit.
My insides are measly and the orange glow I once produced is blackened
like the dirt you threw me in.
Here I rest as you stomp through my peel and crack my core.
I cannot pick myself up.
I must decompose and start again; regrow, grow, growth.
Reach out from branch to sky until I glisten again.
This takes time.
I succumb to comfort in the catacomb containing the plums and apples before me.
Safe as I am in the dark,
I cannot stay long.
My seed will sprout as I am reborn with fresh pupils and stronger limbs.
I've learned to protect myself.
And when another boy,
mouth watering and eyes hungry,
comes to my trunk,
I will summon storms to tear up my roots and cast me down
so he cannot do it himself.