I feel like a cherry with the pit of a peach, there's something within me that isn't quite me my skin's far too polished, my bite far too **** and this fuzz and this sweetness are tearing apart who I am
I struggle to just exist in this space and sometimes I wish that I could erase this part of me
The boundaries that stem from neurodivergence we are taught that our true selves are toxic deterrents we are punished for existing in the ways that we must so we seal off these parts, behind layers of dust buried beneath evermore branches of olive until we can no longer see through this wall of
"I'm not" "I'm sorry" "I'll leave you alone" "I didn't," "I don't," "I'll put down the phone." "My hands just get restless." "It's nothing, don't mind." "Look anywhere else." You know what you'll find beneath
We know that we're stonefruit we know that's a sin but once seeds have rooted, they must draw light in we don't get a say in living like this we didn't choose, but we do exist
so maybe, a peach, with the pit of a cherry I'm smaller and bitter and some find that scary. But peel back my skin, I'm still flesh underneath Softer and tender and gentle and sweet
I might be either. Maybe I'm both. Either way neither's deserving self loathe.
I finish this poem six months after start I'm a fruit, I'm a queer, I'm a pie, I'm a ****. The label's a what. I know who I am. So bite me, pulp me, turn me to jam.
I'll still taste as sweet, still bite as sour My flesh will still be yours to devour Consume me, observe me, but do not define FruitsΒ Β cannot grow from branches confined.