By Emily Corbett
Pink, soft, sweet.
Think.
What does that make you
Think of?
Do you think of that sweet
Taste?
Do you think of the
Love
that you feel with fragile hands
Interlaced?
Does it remind you of sweet, fresh, ripe
Peaches?
Does I remind you of beautiful, quiet, sandy
Beaches?
NO
But I’m not just a full, ripe
Tree
that you get to pluck from for
Free
Something you want to taste.
Your unclean hands have
Disgraced
my soft exterior.
You try to tell me
the bruises
you left on me now make me
Inferior.
My garden is overgrown
but it is no longer yours.
It is nothing
but my Own.
I know
my peach tree will grow miles above you,
because
while you always undermined my strength,
I always knew.