I haven’t given up trying to be a strong woman, a really good one even.

But, 

when I was a kid, 

I was excited about tomatoes, 

their unique smell

biting fresh may.

So I collected white flower buds,

and green bulging flesh

with dark sage veins.

My mother scolded me, rightly, for criticizing the tomatoes’ taste as I took a bite,  

too soon. 

Chewing and spitting,

a deer in the garden.

I hated them: my sour 

not-quite-ripe things. 

I’m seventeen and remember all that I’ve done wrong. 

So ready to stop a man from abusing me,

That I 

Pluck unripe tomatoes and criticize

As he’s just trying to grow 

It’s hard to love sour 

not-quite-ripe things.