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I am learning how to fall
out of love with myself.
What I was known as—
a peach, flowering, supposed
feminine fruit from the great
Tree of Knowledge—
only hisses back at me.
What I know now is
that I am a sin.
My mind thinks separate
from my breasts, mind
you, it slithers.
I long for a different
anatomy, the
frame of a freak
oak, sturdy, something
without these
bruises and pinks.
But the world does
not take kindly to trees.
The botanists have grown
restless. There aren’t any
flowers for them to pluck.
They will break my
limbs off one
by one, two reaching
branches to build
my cross, straighten
me out and make me
taste sweet.
I used to ask myself
if I was an acorn, if
I was just waiting
for a bigger thing
to take me over
from the inside.





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