Ying Yang

by Ellen Gwin

Purple plums pass my resembling bruised lips,

Kissing strawberries, relishing cherries; my mouth grows tired of unwanted fruits.

Terror within speech, stuttering over seeds planted but not yet sprouted.

Juices spill over my hands in anticipation of reaching my searching tongue.

Sticky hands pick up unwanted debris, am I too dirty or too sweet?

Acid fills my stomach, regurgitation tempts my esophagus.

No more fruits, no more sweet; par consequence, a life of loneliness with no debris.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s