Mama always told me the prettiest girls got picked first / flower bud babies sold up for auction (it felt like it, like our lies were being bid off to a shadowy man with lesh hungry hands) and put on trial / made out to be crystalized peaches ripe for plucking / if I were any peach, I think I be rotten / and I think Mama knew it, too / fruit flies corroding sugary sweet lungs, making them sour / no longer ripe is the girl with starry eyes and that lopsided smile / rotted / pungent / wasted / Mama said to never waste an ounce of unfinished food / but what happens to us? / the girls picked around / the peaches left to decay / where do we go? / they make it seem like   there´s no way out / other than being chosen / what if I want to choose? / what if / instead of going quietly into the abyss of blind reverance and presumptuious connections / I chose myself? / all of these bruises / these lumps / these deformities / might not be enough to sate some beau with dreamy eyes and superficialities / but theyŕe enough for a bottom of the barrel peach like me.