Beneath the bruised pink skin,
a quiet storm sleeps.
Its thorns are not weapons,
but memories that refused to fall away.
Each spike is a yesterday,
a word that cut too deep,
a name that never learned to stay.
Touch it, and it bleeds sweetness,
like people who smile even while remembering.
Inside, it is galaxies of white,
stars scattered in soft pulp,
as if the universe hid behind its armour
to keep from being seen too easily.
Isn’t that how we live too?
Dressed in defenses,
stitched with invisible wounds,
pretending our sharpness is beauty
when it is only protection.
To love a dragonfruit
is to peel gently,
to risk the sting,
to taste the ache that lingers after the sweetness,
and realize that every thorn
was once a promise not to be hurt again.
Because even the gentlest hearts
grow barbs when they have bled too long.
And even fruit that looks fierce
was once a flower,
waiting to be touched.
November, 2025
