Pulp

March 12, 2008
By Stephanie Harrison, Birmingham, MI

Your words, they hurt.
Every sentence you speak bruises me.
You can’t see it, you won’t see it,
But you’re beating me to a pulp.
I’m squashed, juiced, I’ve been pulverized.
There’s nothing left of me.
Just a skin, a peel,
No contents left inside.
Stripped of my core, my flesh torn away.
I am empty.
Drained of my essence,
I am neither sweet nor sour.
My flavor is nonexistent.
You cannot love a hollow rind,
So maybe I am trash,
Useless trash.
My skin covered in dents and depressions.
Lots of depressions.
I’m far from flawless,
Not quite ripe.
But,
Not quite trash.


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