I pop a pomegranate seed.
It bleeds,
Delicate fuchsia delight,
Mineral scented, warm, bright,
Full of nectar and promise
(now wasted)
I pop another one,
In a soft cove on my arm-
A slight dip between two veins -
And watch the blushing drop
Edge closer to my elbow. Stop.
A third time,
With the fury of fear
Tiptoeing listlessly in my mind,
Like raindrops on a rooftop.
It is sweet, and ******,
A waste of time but an act of god
Nonetheless.
I crave the sound and texture of it,
So a fourth time comes around.
By now, the citrus is overpowering
But I keep going,
For the sake of purity,
For the sake of the shock of vibrance
On deathly pale skin.
When my arm is covered in juice,
I give up.
There's no sense in envying the wasted.
Scarlet sticks.
