Ripe

This poem was inspired by a post from Sarah Nicole Landry at Birds Papaya whose words about body acceptance and rejecting impossible beauty standards sparked something in me. This isn't a response to her post, but the poem it gave me permission to write.

They want us seedless,
smooth,
shrink-wrapped,
so nothing spills over.

Uniform rows of waxed apples,
identical in shape and shine,
stacked high on supermarket shelves,
easy to pick,
easier to digest.

But I want to be wild,
ripe and unrestrained,
a papaya split open
under the weight of its own plumpness.

I want skin that bears the seasons it’s weathered,
stretch marks like lightning cracks,
freckles like pollen dusted in sunlight.

Let me be speckled,
misshapen, bruised,
the kind of fruit
that bursts when you sink your teeth in,
sticky and decadent,
too messy for delicate hands
and paper napkins.

Let me grow wild
on tangled vines,
roots deep and defiant,
not trimmed,
not tamed,
not artificially altered to fit in.

Let me taste of earth
and summer storms,
of hands that sowed me
but never pruned me.

I want to be remembered,
not for how I looked,
but for how I tasted
when my juices spilled into your mouth and ran down your chin.

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