My head, my long head burns
in fury as my teeth expand. I can taste gun powder.
It is only what I knew,
not what I begin to know now.
I can become a tomato, only when
I become a tomato.
I am not whole, or ripe,
or sweet, red flesh,
I will only be a youthful green seed, now.
And what will I do with myself?
I have let fat, green worms slither
around my precious skin.
I have laid root in rocky, dry soil.
I have hidden my aching vines from
and that was all then.
Now, my face pulsates as I grind
my teeth on old leather,
embracing the tension,
and I will, I will do with my sweet,
ripe fruit what I know now.