I am only me, only this over-ripe
squish of flesh, feeling the bees
needling me to feed on my sweetness.

Damn this swarm which maims
and pains my face!
I pretend these stings are marks
of a more distinguished fruit,
narcissus of the orchard,
I try, I try to love my damage

but deep in my pit I abhor
my spongy skin and pray for knife's slice
to carve out my knurled heart
and leave me empty-caved,
a ruined druse of bruised fruit
so I would be as worthless as I feel
when your hands will not reach for me in hunger.