More Than One Metaphor

I am a peach.

Bruised, and dripping with sweet juices.

Peaches are meant to be eaten.

I sit with my sisters at the farmer’s market. People that want peaches stop, pick me up, give me a squeeze. Because of some flaw of my own, or some whim of theirs, they put me back.

Squeeze after squeeze after squeeze, but not one bite.

Peaches are meant to be eaten.

My sunset skin begins to purple. Once firm flesh goes soft from squeezing. When I am picked up and probed, tested for my worth, the people that want peaches grimmace at my rot. 

Who would eat a bruised peach?

I fear that soon I will not be picked up at all. Now and again, the odd, not-so-picky peach-eater will still lift me, rock me in their hands, allow me the luxury of human touch, and the fantasy of hope.

I fear my fate is fermentation.

Peaches are meant to be eaten.



you wear craving like lingerie. no one knows it’s there but you, and every time you think of the secret you keep with yourself your heart starts to pound against the walls of its cage. it’s a luxury, that compulsive, cathartic desire of yours; indulgent in its scandal, expensive in risk. to feel that craving is to run your hands along sweet satin and bury your lips into lace. craving lives between your thighs and along your ribs, in the wet tug of wanting and the jagged jump of the diaphragm as it wracks your lungs with shaky, anxious breath. 

craving and coveting wear the same hat. 


I woke up with a song about loving yourself stuck in my head and,

still humming it,

cut four gentle lines into my calf.

Without tears, 

without words,

I dressed the tiny wounds,

neosporin, bandaid,

careful not to crinkle the paper too loud 

and wake up my two sleeping roommates

in the beds across from mine,

ignorant bystanders to my acts.

The song is still stuck in my head.

I love myself the best that I can.

It’s Very Easy to Forget What Little Things Used to Make You Happy

Today the air smelled like pine trees and my head sang “Pulaski at Night”. The medication makes it hard to sleep so I take more medication. When I do I don’t wake up feeling any more rested than I would, but I do have the most satisfying, spine-tingling stretches, the kind cats take after a nap. Those have to come naturally, reverberating out from your core to your entire body, and they haven’t in a long time. 

I don’t know if the medication is working. They say it’s too soon to tell. But today the air smelled like pine trees and my head sang “Pulaski at Night”, and that, at least, is something.


I think the reason I hang out with boys so much is that I’m just not smart enough to keep up with other girls.

Boys do lie, but they lie in what they don’t tell you – lies of omission – or they lie about things that are obviously untrue: feelings, libido, boasting. And they speak in words. They ask questions, answer questions.

Girls speak in glances that I never quite catch, in harmonious laughter at a joke I don’t get. They don’t ask the questions that mean anything and don’t answer the ones that mean everything. They love deep, difficult conversations, but only when they’re standing at the podium delivering verdicts or wearing objective, unattached safety-orange and directing emotional traffic. It’s harder to get guys to talk about the things that matter, yes, but when they talk they really do. Hidden behind a thin veil of candy floss and amorphous sisterhood, girls can lie to you with a warm smile, a cold stare or honest tears in their eyes. At least, the ones I’ve known can. 

And this is fine. This is a survival mechanism women have picked up after centuries of silenced voices, injustice and fear. Our subtleties and secrecies protect us. And they provide a language, a lingua franca for women from all walks. There is no feeling greater than noticing the tilt of a stranger’s head and sharing for a moment that magical, near-telepathic sameness of thought and instinct. I have felt this a rare few times and they were the only rare, few times I have understood that vague, amorphous Sisterhood. 

And I am not free of subtlety or secrecy. If I was, I’d be dead. I wouldn’t have survived without neglecting to answer the questions that meant everything. 

But as smart as I am to know when I’m being lied to, to feel the hidden intentions behind a smile or a laugh and taste the energy in the air when a question is asked or answered, I’m not smart enough to play along. Like the Mary’s Room Thought Experiment. I have studied color my entire life, I know the science and significance of every shade, but my world is black and white. I’ve learned all the steps to the dance but I was born with two left feet.

Inside, outside. Boys, girls. There’s no difference really. I sit, untouched, pristine. My world is black and white.

Emotional Snapshot

I’m listening to you play piano and mumble to yourself about what key you’re in and does this note go here and why your creative process has to be rushed. When you told me you were here I said I would come up and do homework but now I’m just turning my computer screen away and trying to look busy. I can’t stop smiling.

God, when I’m not around you I rant and rave about how stupid I am to like you. I fret over every text, I pull my hair when you don’t respond but scold myself for jumping at the phone when you do. But when I am here, and you’re there, five feet away tapping at the keys, not even looking at me but just being there, being comfortable enough to talk to yourself in front of me, responding wittily to my agonized groans of how I just can’t write this paper, singing. I can’t stop smiling.


I don’t scare easy, except when I do.

I sleep in a rickety bunk bed. It’s beams whine threateningly every time I throw myself onto my mattress – and I do throw myself. I walk the streets of Manhattan at one, two, three in the morning, just to feel the cold air on my face. I moved thirteen hundred miles away from home to a state where I knew no one and no thing without blinking. I watch horror movies for the giggles. I do not scare easy.

Except when I do.

I jump at the sound of slammed doors. If tapped on the shoulder from behind, I give off a terrified, high-pitched squeak. If you suddenly raise your voice at me, I’ll cry.

It’s fear not in the unknown, but the unexpected, the sudden, the violent. Not in the epic, astronomical tectonic changing of the world, but the unpredictable, seismometer-defying earthquake. A warm front into a cold front becomes a tornado. Peace is never broken slowly. It shatters.

– via the Daily Prompt