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.