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.