It stung to my
core, a bite so deep
it pierced my skin. You opened
me up for dessert and left me out to
  dry, to sit, in
the sun,
to turn.
Seedless,
discolored,
lifeless,
Sunburnt.
Don’t
cover me
in
cinnamon
because you want more bites,
the only thing I have left is my
stem and my sour
taste of light.