I always ate the seeds in my watermelon
For no other reason than to
Rage against the machine of an on-looking, disapproving mother
Shouting cautionary tales of the large over grown patches
Of ripe, delicious melons which were sure to spring up in my
stomach
Sending dusty green vines shooting out of my mouth, nose, and
fingertips
Stretching my body into a lumpy silhouette, each melon vying
for position
Each one wanting the lion’s share of space within my colon,
or kidney, or lung
Maybe I could be a Batman villain, foiling his plans with my
diabolical, horticultural schemes
Maybe I could date poison ivy, I heard she is in full bloom
come July
Maybe a buck-toothed frat boy will pluck one of my watermelons
from my nostril
And fill me with cheap vodka, saving me for his graduation,
or formal
Or the first time he gets laid
Or maybe I can open myself up, spilling my fruit everywhere,
tethered by my vines
Free to any unsupervised child to lift high above his head and
smash
On the crack of a sidewalk, free from supervising eyes
So that he may devour the blood-red pulp, savoring its sweet
disobedience
Letting its sensation, seeds and all, course wildly through
his veins
Amphetamized by the proposition of possibility
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