Pulp

March 12, 2008
By
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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