my spite tastes like blood.
i meant to say spit
but the sterile cherry
candied spit that coats my teeth
is enough to remind me i'm
empty, like an apple that's been cored
or the peach you ripped apart,
digging your fingers into my flesh
and leaving a bruise on my chest
in the shape of a heart.
i've ripened too fast and your touch sinks
into my skin like fresh dirt,
the same kind you used to bury my pit
that you picked out with your teeth
and crushed under your foot.
i'm soft now, enough for worms
to bury under my skin,
puncturing the surface
like pinching stems of basil leaves.
why can't you be that gentle with me?
