What if I aged like a peach, growing old and moldy and moldy until my flesh was gone — nothing left but a pit, and within that pit, a seed?
It feels strange, to be protected by this stony endocarp, knowing that, what it holds inside, is a spoiled embryo, diseased by inner turmoil.
Maybe I will get better. Maybe this hard seed coat, sealing in my grief, my agony, will one day split to release the pressure of all it contains.
(I kind of like the pressure. I’ve spent so long collecting memories — beautiful and sharp and shiny as new sea glass — to feel something, anything.)
But today, today my seed coat is a bulletproof vest; it is a cellophane wrapping; it is my shelter.
If I was to shed this coat, heavy with heartbreak, maybe I will feel born again, naked to the world and what it means to experience ending love.
(What if I stayed though, just a little bit longer? It’s warm here, crowded by my growing radicle and the memories I keep tucked beneath my cotyledon.)
If you read this, would you understand my words? Would you cradle me in your hands and carry me away from this musty fruit basket to give me a new home? Would you know to plant me in shallow earth? To give me a hearty drink? To let the sun shine down?
Would you give love to help me grow?
So It Goes 