An Acquired Taste
The peach sits
heavy in my palm,
its fuzz a soft promise
against my calloused hand.
I bite in too soon,
its flesh hard and sour.
A pit splits open
revealing cyanide
disguised as an almond.
The juice drips
down my chin,
sticky and acidic,
but I swallow anyway—
wanting doesn’t wait.
Copyright © Jaymee Thomas | Year Posted 2025
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