like a fruit too soft to cut

i try to cut through but as the knife goes deeper the flesh just sinks down. the cutting board, covered in juice, i clean my blade as sticky residue runs down my wrist. for some reason i let it. i let the stickiness dry down, stay as much as it can hold onto my skin.

i sit with the mess i’ve made. watching as the pulp shrinks, darkens to let itself dry. mold will eventually grow and stickiness will fade over time. the sweetness of it all becomes sour and stiff until what i once was eager to cut, get deeper into is just something to be cleaned.

as the rotting begins, the stench intensifies, i try to cover it with sweet vanilla. the two blend, sweetness of what i’ve wished for and the truth of it all.

the pit blackening as i open the window, hoping that fresh air could wipe away what feels like a corpse i’m too afraid to bury, to let go of. the skin, the flesh, it all once was ripe.

i waited too long to cut.