To resent the sight of rotten flesh
decomposing inside my palms.
Its scarlet seeds dried,
stale, and scorched from the sun.

A competition lost between me and the birds,
now lies only a peel,
the abandoned shell of a fruit’s innards.

Conceived from a flower,
birthed as a fruit,
pecked and plucked by the perverse crows

And I
picking the pieces of the abandoned corpse.