Floating in a world destined to be
neatly labeled and stacked on shelves
in the back of the pantry,
settled in nice and snug,
Im the awkwardly shaped fruit
that you cant cut and seal.
I stick into fingers like
diabetic pin needles
and make blood bloom on your hands
when you try to sort me.
If you get past my rough exterior
I have a hard shell that cannot be
cracked simply,
you wont get through that easily.
My structure refuses to bend and break
at the touch of those who
find love only in words on fragile pages
dictated by men with silver tongues
and false embraces.
I am the fruit that was bitten into by Eve
on that fateful day
from the forbidden tree,
sexuality.
I am not so easily stored into
nice compartments,
brand new tupperware arrangments
that find a home in the
cold confines of your refrigerator.
I cannot stand the cold or the dust
of your kitchen appliances or cupboards,
I cannot sit quietly with the
tucked in things, the organized,
and mantained items.
My juices, when open, stain and drench
all surroundings
despite the care you take in handling
and I will ruin your precious dress.
I am volatile, I am awkward,
I am beautiful, I am inconvenient,
I am art.
I am the awkwardly shaped fruit that you
cant cut and seal.
I am real.
