I am not a pineapple. I am a being that is more than sight and taste. I have feelings that are as tender as changing shape.


You never liked me. Not really.

You liked me, as you wanted me. Open and exposed.

Vulnerable to the bone. You liked me without my flesh-without the protection of my form. I was pleasant without my shelter, naked and alone. I was for you? Pleasurable? Or another passing fruit?  Was I worth my demise, did you savour the time?

I feel like you must, who else lives up to my touch.

I am undeniable in my truth. I take over you but you make into a joke- someone that lives alone. Pushed aside to the furthest or the centrepiece but never allowed to be free, unless you were ready to devour me.

No one wanted to see, what it really felt like to be me. I am more than rough- I am what longs to be touched. I am more than spikes. I am a mountain of sharp petals that rose from the ground. My mother was the delicious sound of raindrops falling down. I am the sun. When you opened me up you could see, how my nectar does not bleed it dreams. My skin was my true reality.

I wonder what else you can’t believe.   

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