It isn't that she's gone,
it's the stun of it.
And I say that like I believe it,
but isn't it the sum of it
that I loved her.
And she loved me first,
and I loved her last.
And I don't know which is worst
now that it's all passed.

I peeled open my rind,
to show her my kind
of deep gray, dark pulp.

She saw it as rotten and that's the sum of it.

And now that I've been peeled, I'm just sitting here rotting.

And what has become of it?
This graying odd fruit?

I'm is filling the room with sickly sweetness, as I collapses from rot,
and my herbal gangrene leaves me hollow, crushed,
I wish I had my rind again.

Wish to be on her mind again.

But I know one taste would make you convulse,
so I wither down, and slacken my pulse,
bearing my seeds as I decompose,
stringing my thoughts into words, I compose.


Lying, a mess, where you left me, dispose
immediately this hazardous waste
before the fruit becomes tempting to taste
and you concave inside like I did
and let me destroy you like I would.