“Strawberry Moon”

plant's charity for herbivores

whose stomachs yearn for love

a piece of whom is meant to be eaten

despite the world they know

plant's charity for humans

omnivores; courageous

they seed and grow nature's gift

and give remains to their friends

each little present springs

from mother earth, she lets em sing

and bloom into this marvelous thing

an agent of the gods

plant's charity is no longer owned

their favor met with endless growth

a piece of whom was meant to be eaten

but certainly not like this

It ruins my bitter mood,

It ruins my bitter heart,

In a world like mine,

Where it ment to be bitter,

Where its ment to be gross,

It sweetens my daily life

Strawberry Moon, every shadow tastes of sugar and every heart remembers how to bloom.”

Never pick mulberries

wearing a white shirt.

Actually, you can,

if you want another shirt

that you only wear

for gardening.

It ruins white school shirts,

turns them into sunset maps,

splattered across the chest,

no detergent can argue back.

It ruins summer afternoons,

makes you sit on the stoep,

because the floor inside

is now a crime scene too.

It ruins manners at the table,

juice running down your wrist,

dripping from your elbow,

while your mom sighs, then smiles.

It ruins everything,

and somehow,

that’s how you know

it was worth it.

Fruit, fruit, fruit

You cut open my mouth

I want you all my life

But instead I give you the boot

You feel like a knife

Even your outside is prickly

I let go of you quickly

You're yellow and green

Those colors scream not clean

No matter how hard you try

People only occasionally buy

You wait,

for it to be perfect.

Let it sit on the kitchen counter,

bathed in the morning sunlight.

The skin gets softer,

you imagine how beautiful it will be,

your teeth will sink into the tender flesh,

juice dripping down your chin, staining your shirt.

Today, you walk over to it,

but it's too late.

It's caved in on itself,

flies making its core a home.

melted into the granite,

and leaking onto the linoleum.

Georgia peaches always ruin,

childish expectations,

and the illusion of patience.

My stomach burns just as my throat does

I'm probably allergic

Who knows?

Sometimes yellow, sometimes ripe orange.

Sometimes raw green, sometimes overripe brown.

The fruit that holds a "crown".

The taste that makes nobody frown.

But something's wrong,

Since every coin has two sides.

My mouth is all itchy.

My hands are all sticky.

There are stains all over my dress.

Still I return to this mess.

Oh, pineapple. You're a sweet disguise.

A little pain, for a paradise.

The juice drips down his fingers

The sight sets my heart aflutter

I want to lick the sweet apple sauce

And watch while he stutters.

The blush that would rise in his cheeks

The love in my heart fly to meet it

To hold on tight and watch

The apple's juice drip, drip, drip.

I would watch unflinching

As that juice ran down, down, down

Ruining my heart under his ribs

Tearing me apart without a sound.

Blueberries are always good

Yet the stains ruin

my blouse

Blue dots that pierce the fabric

the will never come out

Blueberries are sweet to eat

as it swishes in my mouth

Dwindling down my cheeks

Feeling the essence of it sweets aroma

But I'll always love blueberries

For they are sweet.

The white shirt is the first thing to go

but you dont care

Eat more and more

'til the white turns red

now the berries are gone

all that you have left to remind you of them

is the red where white once occupied

a cherry ruins restraint. one taste and suddenly everything becomes indulgence — fingertips stained red, mouths confessing things they should’ve kept buried. it is sweetness with a bruise beneath it, soft flesh hiding the sharpness of the pit.

Banana loaf.

That's what we are.

Sticky, carby mess.

The fruits of our labour mesh together

In a tin, a contained space

We should all rise.

But we cannot coexist.

One overpowers the other.

My sticky sweet melts to your stoic malt.

Masking.

There's a raisin.

Chewy, dry and sweet inside.

Tough as old boots and good for you,

In spite.

Served up and dashed in icing.

Cake for an afternoon.

What's the occasion?

Apple

Apples ruin my eyes,

for I cannot see one

without a glimpse of you,

an imagined wink

and a smile.

Apples ruin my ears,

for I cannot hear myself

take a bite

without the sweet sound

of your laughter,

born from our banter

over peaches and pears.

Now apples

ruin my mind,

for I cannot stop

thinking of you

whenever one appears

as fruit,

as a device,

or even

as dessert,

like

sweet apple pie.

Soughing willows screech in pain.

Orchards moist whilst wet with rain.

Upon its skin, cuts not too deep.

"A+E", the willow weeps.

The red apple I eat turns into blood within me.

I am finding that

I project a selflessness

While being selfish

It sounds obvious

Like a flaw I should have seen

Yet I am surprised

It's like with blankets

You get cozy under them

And you forget 'em

'Cause it is comfort

That's what I'm always after

That, and convenience

And it's real comfy

To know how to treat people

All to earn their praise

But the Gardener

He strips away the blanket

And goes for my heart

And planting something

Where my chest is "agape"

And it's changing me

It ruins the white shirt first,

a red that refuses to stay in its lane.

It ruins the clean‑lined morning

with a sudden memory of summer.

It ruins the careful distance

you swore you’d keep this time.

It ruins the myth

that you can taste something so tender

and stay unchanged.

It ruins the lie of being untouched.

It ruins the quiet.

It ruins you a little,

in the way only sweetness can.

Oh you peeled a pomegranate for me.!

That gesture made my eyes watery.

Never had anyone been that invested

to put an effort, sweet and intended.

But that day turned a feeling in me

since you left a stain on my new white tee,

but i wasn't miffed or rolling my eyes

as it marks as a memory so suffice,

I washed my cloth just softly

to leave that moment with you warmly

I miss those days when love leaves remarks

bitter enough to later, feel its sparks.

It’s every odd texture

When the trees tried to make a mixture

I loathe the smell

I despise the taste

Yet I’d hate for it to be a waste

Choke it down

The juice dripping onto your gown

The sight of it makes me gag

I think it makes my brain lag

It’s been in the sun too long

I don’t want this fruit to stick around for long

"Una fruta por lo que arruina "

Mandarina con su color y aroma se divide en partes con el simple echo de satisfacer gustos y necesidades , tan rica mandarina , tu aroma y gusto es arte .

we were halfway through the silence

when your thumb broke the skin.

a sudden spray,

the emergency of your wrist.

a single drop fell onto your shirt,

and you dropped the pieces into my lap.

too many. too fast.

i would have peeled the white stringy bits for you.

i would have sat until my fingers were raw.

but the juice ran ahead of us.

you left me with sticky hands

too tired to hold you.

it ruined a love that would peel the world.

@the_softest_thing

By the third morning the mark had spread. A thin line of moisture ran along the grain, catching dust as it moved. Lifting the peach left a shallow crater, the varnish clouded and uneven. The fruit sagged in my hand. I wiped the sill, but the surface stayed raised at the edge where the wood had begun to swell. The room held the change for the rest of the day, of how one softening thing alters a surface built to outlast it.

and in the end,

it was her

who poisoned the well

tainted what’s pure and

left ruins of me

it was my lover -

after all -

who’s rotted to the core

and aching with decay

once tart, now bitter

once green, now withered

the Apple of My Eye

She, the lover who lies