a rind or a crust,
a case or a skin,
peeled or cut,
chopped or bruised,
flesh leaves the tender body
and rots,
like the browning banana,
the red of an apple,
the soft tissue of a grape.
your complexion aches
for more scars,
more peeling back
of the outer shell
to reveal something
far too pink and fresh
to be recognized as pain.
you toss the slices
of apple rind
into the trash,
the bloody casing
yelling from the depths
that it has lost control
over the hidden gem,
the sweet yellow fruit
that it swore to protect.
maybe beneath your redness
is something worth
exposing.
you peel the banana,
carve the watermelon,
ignore the mushy grapes.
your scars are scabbing
and you don’t want to
pick at them
because nothing was sweet
underneath the flesh,
just metallic ooze
and porcelain bones.
you bruise just as easy
as those apples,
but the apple’s core
holds a precious nectar,
unlike your own,
which rots
deep and dark
just like the flesh
you left behind.