I hungrily caressed the skin of your fruit, ignoring the nicks and bruises that should’ve warned me away.
You were taut beneath my tongue if I closed my eyes, imagining how I wanted you to be.
You fell apart in my mouth, mealy and unsatisfying, but I wanted more. Needed more. Desperately chewing until you made me sick.
Your stems and seeds cut my lips, my throat, my stomach. I told myself I liked it.
I choked, my body pushing you up and away, but still you scraped inside. I told myself I wanted that because it was easier than not.
I retched for hours, trying to rid myself of you until my eyes were bloody and my gut was twisted and raw.
I still taste you in drops of bile that cling to my tongue. You’re stuck in my teeth, a lingering memory of the scars you left in my body. I rub them raw, picking them open, even when I don’t want to. The memories pick at me when I least want them to.
I picked you because I wanted to. Until I didn’t, but then my mouth was full and I ate so I wouldn’t have to face the truth of your rotten fruit.
My teeth ache from overuse, disuse, I don’t remember their use anymore. I think I enjoyed fruit once, but I can’t remember anymore.
But I do remember that I picked you.
Pick. Pick. Pick.
Notes on Rotten Fruit:
Processing trauma feels a lot like fighting a hydra. As soon as I deal with one event, two more repressed memories pop up in its place. It’s a complicated process with highs and lows and if you’re going through something similar, then my only advice is to hang in there. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore than you do, but I hope you find some comfort in knowing you’re not alone.