They're all doubled over in an aching belly laugh;
I can already smell the apple pie.

What if when we grow old
we rotted the way fruit does?
What if, as we crinkle in on ourselves,
we earn soft spots
where the mold has eaten us away?
We are plucked from our trees so young,
but we are ripe for so long.

What if when we rot
someone larger and grander
who can fit us in their hand
smiles as they throw us into the woods?
We hit trees and gain triumphant cheers.
We befriend the leaves
and we rot together.

What if when we grow old
we grew new life?
What if, as we crease and hunch,
we grow down and down
until we are rooted in place?
And we can be tall again
and beautiful.

To those in search of my heart, you won’t find it.

Not here at least,
I hid it,
No offense to you.

It is locked behind doors of thick bone,
Tucked under flexing armor of muscle,
And secured away in the silky depths of my skin.

But,
I see yours is ripe for the taking.
Plump and precious,
Pulsing it’s sweet red juices,
It’s taunting me.

Why haven’t you hidden it from me?

This isn’t a joke,
I’m deadly,
I’m a predator to hearts like yours.

But, since it is there.
I’ll take it.

I’ll take it in my palms,
I’ll sink my nails into it,
I’ll lap up the love it drips.

Tastes like honey.
Sweet, so sweet, so yummy.

I’ll press it to my lips,
I’ll line it with my tongue,
And pierce it with my teeth

The way it beats for me drives me wild.
I can taste your rhythm.

You’re not naive or ignorant.
You’re just in love,
How could I not take advantage of that?

You’re weak,
And I’m strong.
So, let me take care of you.

You’re sad,
And I’m here.
Just give yourself to me.

I’ll take precious care of the heart fruit you bare.
I promise.
You’ll be safe with me.
You’ll be happy,
Content,
And satisfied.

But, eventually, heart broken.

I wear an old shade of red.
My belly is a wrinkled
skin of fruit.
I am no longer a ripe peach,
not even a blossom.
That my daughter is.

Apple or tangerine?

Apple or tangerine?

What should I eat this morning?

Is it important?

Will the wrong choice destroy my day?

Is there a way to tell the difference?

Is there a wrong choice?

Or am I wasting my precious
time casting doubts?

Or is this the path of purpose,
to see one’s choices as if they
matter in the details that make the
fibres and stitching of the grand scheme?

Have I figured it out?

Or is that my ego craving importance?

What if there’s-


Crap, I have to go.

Guess I’ll have the banana.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Looking for the “watermelon girl” from Sam’s Club earlier. I thought you looked like you were planning a party, but maybe you just really liked fruit. I watched you put six melons in the cart and then make a call. You nodded and held the phone between your cheek and shoulder, adding seven more melons to the cart. One of them dropped and rolled towards me. I picked it up and gave it to you, joking, “Have enough yet?” (Stupid joke, sorry) You responded, “I hope so. She always loved melons.” Then I noticed the tears on your face. I left you to finish your conversation.

Anyway, I was the guy with the bad joke and the brown hair. Wearing a green button down and blue jeans. You were the girl with dark curly hair and a blue dress. And the watermelons.

I hope it ended up being enough. I hope you see this.

Sour scented citrus,
Sweet, slimy syrup.
That’s me!
Sour lemon,
Sweet honey.

My heart burns and
Emotions rise up
In acidic scent,
Sticky, icky, stingy
Sour lemon sweet honey.

The love stings and sits on cuts.
While honey glazes and gives warm hugs
As it finds a cure in the blood
Wherever it may be
With the right combination of:
Sour lemon and sweet honey.

I am tired of chasing straw haired boys,
Who smell like earth and stability and everything that should be good for me.

I hurl myself like a meteor at them,
crash headfirst and they insist I am more fire rocket than girl.

He picks a girl who looks like him,
And I insist it is not because I am not straw haired.

But it eats at me, persimmons drip just like strawberries.
Why did you pick me if you could never even love me?