Poetry

Rotten, ripen

I grew up hating myself

I would lace my blooming body in dirty rags

Slam it into walls to disfigure my ripening bossoms

And drape cloth over curves to hide away my woman-hood.

It didn’t make sense to me.

How could fruit grow

On the outside

Of a rotten centre?

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5 thoughts on “Rotten, ripen”

      1. of couse it has so much emotion, yet its like i can see only the tip of the mountain of emotions you have

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