I carry hope like a seed in my mouth.
Certain of the things I hope for,
Sure of what I cannot see
Watermelons grow in my gut:
They expand and drop, some seeds fall and others remain in place.
But they fight with the Lemon seeds under my tongue
They are sour, and never sweet.
Seeds of guilt for things I should have done,
And for the things I will not do.
The seeds rotate beneath and infuse my mouth with yellow.
I want to spit out the responsibility beside my gums,
It helps me to grow so my mouth is swollen now.
I cradle it like some Orange seeds –
They’re in my mouth there, and the taste is familiar
I am tired of familiar flavours.
There are Wood-apple seeds beneath my molars.
My pain threshold is high but those seeds are so brown –
I see them as pain and that’s what they cause me.
The fruit is ugly and pain is unattractive
But I don’t know how to extract them.