“Cutie”

Bypassing the skin, so delicate, 

thumb pressed through without hesitation. 

“Such a Cutie,” he says,

stroking the soft, pulpy flesh. 

Am I the skin, peeled away, discarded? 

Or am I the juice, clementine-sweet,

rolling down chin and pulsing neck? 

Am I the peelable, shareable slices, 

swallowed whole, pushed past

gnashing teeth to be teased by searching, searching,

searching tongue?

Am I the dream of satisfaction 

or am I the nightmare of empty hand,

palm up, stained and sticky and left grasping.