Forbidden Fruits

It puzzles me. This broken pencil with which you write. The sound it emits as you scrape it across the paper. A scream gagged. A wound too full of antiseptic.

It asks me why. I just nod and shrug. How to explain to oneself why those who take the most are always the ones i'm compelled to give more to. The only lines on this paper are the ones I've drawn in. They are jagged and weak. They are meant to be ignored. Scribbled over. Until I am able to see them from the other side. When the page has turned and all those pictures are lies.

We're never old enough to lose gracefully. Not something we really want.

We're all children when it comes time to be selfless. For those to whom we've promised it.

It's not the leash. It's the collar that's the restraint.

We set our feelings to appointments. Scheduling the grief and the joy. As if to imagine we can control what will harm us. What gives us hope.

But it never shows up when expected. And it never leaves when it should.

The heart is just like any other fruit. I was ripe once. Juices spilling over. Crisp flesh to bite into. That would bite back as they chewed.

But everything decays. Some things quicker than others.

Remembering how sweet it once tasted can't ever change how sour it is now. How old we've gotten since that vine first tempted.

It looks so much like spring, but it's still winter.