If I were a fruit, would you still date me, would my shell  
be easy to crack, or would your patience bruise at the very
weight of peeling me back? I laugh at my own dad jokes
that crack me open; would you still concentrate on showing
me a fruitful love, or just beat my heart to a pulp. Whether
sweet or bitter, would you press me down to juice or savour
me in sips?

Would my scent linger like ripened promise, or fade too
quickly, forgotten at the bottom of the basket? Would you
call my softness spoiled, or taste the sugar hidden beneath
rough skin? I can be sharp as citrus, cutting your tongue;
other days, mellow as a peach, velvet against your hands.

And when I start to wine; my actions feeling like a bunch
of sour grapes, do you drink me slow, or spit me all out
as vinegar, too **** for you to swallow? When my seeds
of advice scatter, do you plant them for more, or toss them
aside as waste of the core? Even my flaws ferment into
something you might call flavour—but would you learn
to love the aftertaste?

So tell me— if I were your fruit, what fruit would I be?