Our bodies are fruits

apples and pears with curved skin

blemished with brown spots

Fruits that are too big

too shriveled for someone’s taste

are then cast away

We say that our seeds,

inside layers of sweet, soft

flesh, make us all up

Seeds pack cyanide

Deadly, powerful poison

From which things still grow

The flesh before seeds

makes fruits revolting. Disgust

provokes spitting out.

We are thrown in trash

with the appearance of brown

imperfect spottings

Only the perfect

are eaten all to the core,

planted in the ground

The cycle again

continues, sift through the bad

Our beauty is taste

Stunted we lay here

The bottom of wooden crates

Rotting away; slow

Our bodies are fruits

But now, only we can be

apples in our eyes

For we know what lays

Underneath damaged skin peels

Imperfect blotches

We know of our taste

Sweet and sour goodness melts

Godly ambrosia

No need for lemons

To stay young with yellow flesh

Brown makes the apples

Damaged fruits stand out

Splotches differ from standard

Processed; generic

We still taste the same

Goodness in slices, ripened 

Aged beautifully

Bodies aren’t just fruits

Cannot be thrown out, away

More than an apple