by Ellen Gwin
In my bitter sixteens I tasted like sweet, succulent blackberries. As dark as I presented myself, my skin oozed red sap onto anyone who with lingering touches and my leaves unwillingly engulfed the entirety of the world around me.
At eighteen, I felt elevated and acidic, like luscious red raspberries. I wanted to be sweet but with a bite. I wanted to touch every part of every body, every tip of every finger; the lingering touches did not satiate my hollow center, I wanted you to soak in my acidity while you relished in my sweet disposition.
At twenty, I became a multi-seeded, multi-faceted pomegranate. I was easily plucked, but not easily opened and once inside I was not one, I was full of many: I did not know myself and neither would anyone else. Eat me and you will never see winter again; I will bring eternal springs but that is all you will ever know.
At twenty-five, I am a grape: rotting into a tasteful drink. Soon, I will become fine wine but for now I am shriveling. I strive to taste both sweet and acidic, my drink made of many. Be patient and pure intoxication may lead us to a happenstance connection.
Published in 805 Lit + Art Mag 2021