RIPE.

​

I am ripe.

Ready to be picked

apart by the rough, gloved hands

of scrutiny.

 

On the front lines I hang

my heart on my skin

for people to peel,

piece by piece,

‘til they strip me down

to my juicy core.

 

Then squeeze as they may

but I won’t run dry

flowing with nectar

from roots to rind.