I picked up the overripe fruit of myself,
split open and spilling across the table.
The smell of it—sweet, too sweet—
reminded me of the way love sounds when whispered
by someone who’s about to leave.
My body holds wars it cannot explain,
maps of longing burned into its skin,
but still, I gather the seeds and plant them
in the soil of my chest, hoping
something tender might grow
where the ruin has been.