We begin a simple bud,
Blooming into raw fruit
Eventually reaching our peak as
Ripe, smooth, shiny, perfect for sale.
Fresh vegetables.

What happens after
If we aren't sold?
We stay seated on a shelf,
No longer on the pedestal
But put in our own section of the aisle.
Brandishing the yellow sale tag,
Sentenced to a life of scorn.
Bearing the shame
Until the day we are rotten enough
To be finally put out of misery
And be disposed,
Replaced with another batch
Of fresh vegetables
To scrutinize, reduce, and smush.