The fruit has gone bad.
The skin is puckered, scabbed, festering.
It sinks in on itself,
And flies have begun to swarm.

I dig my fingers into its soft flesh,
And the maggots writhe and twist beneath them.
The fruit weeps—
sickly sweet juices run down my aching hands,
Tracing the tangle of veins beneath my skin.
It drips to the floor and pools at my feet.

I am drunk on the scent of rot.
Dionysian madness fills the air,
Pungent and dizzying and so thick
That I may suffocate in it.

But I cannot stop my hands
As they bury themselves deeper and deeper.
The nectar stains my skin,
And I lose sight of where I end
And the fruit begins.

As I pull its meat apart,
the seeds stare up at me,
And I gently, methodically pluck them
From the viscera,
And let them fall to the ground.