v u l v a l i c i o u s
sometimes a cherry is just a cherry
i can't stop thinking about cherries and crime scenes. sex and blood and heat and soft and the green of the stems. the reminder of life, of something more.
today i bought a pound of them just for their looks. fat things, rounded just so and pulsing with life, striations of red and lighter red and darker red (when they say cherry, it should mean this. not that garish too bright thing that gets substituted). before the purchase, i stared into the bag. fed on three of them. blushed at the whole thing.
and bringing them home i knew i still had some stashed away, so i pulled those out, pitting them with my fingers to feel the pleasant give of the softening skins and sucking the pits afterward. i threw them in a salad. murder! the whole bowl staining red.
and right now i could gorge on them, eat one after another and not stop. cherry-ripe, i cry.
it is this fruit i would fuck with my mouth and my hands, that begs for my teeth and releases so sweet. this fruit i would allow to consume me if only i could keep the taste in my mouth forever.