sombre

poesy two

everyone loves the oranges.
the clean break, the soft peel, the easy sweetness.
they talk about it like it's some perfect thing, peeling together, splitting the segments, sharing without a word, without a mess.
but all i can think about is the pomegranate.
how it bursts, bleeds, stains your hands red, stains the table, the floor, everything it touches.
how it’s hard to crack open, how the seeds scatter, roll away, and nothing stays in place.

i’d peel one for you, if you asked.
i’d tear it apart, even though i know it would get everywhere, make a mess neither of us could clean up.
but you wouldn't like it, would you?
you like the neatness, the order, the way things can stay intact, in their perfect little sections, not spilling over, not breaking apart.
i want to say it’s worth it.
the mess, the chaos.
the way the seeds pop, burst against your teeth, the sharpness, the bite, the way it fills your mouth with something real.
but it’s not easy, not simple like an orange.
it’s work.
it’s patience.
it’s sticky fingers and stained skin.
it’s something that stays with you long after it’s gone.

maybe that’s why i think about the pomegranate.
because it’s harder.
because it demands more.
because once you’ve peeled it, once you’ve tasted it, you can’t just wipe it away, clean it up, pretend it didn’t happen.
it lingers.
and i wonder-
would you let me peel one for you?
would you sit with me while the juice runs down our wrists, while we fumble with the seeds, while everything spills over and there's no way to keep it neat?

or would you turn away?
wipe your hands, push it aside, reach for something easier, something cleaner, something that doesn’t leave a mark?