When I eat a pomegranate, I cut the red ball in half.
I don’t feel sorry about puncturing it right to the core.
I don’t feel sorry about puncturing it right to the core.
Her seeds are for me to enjoy and her to forget.
I eat what I see and then I crack the halves in half and find more.
Some tart, some sweet, some tasteless.
And then I crack some more and eat all in sight.
Until she is nothing but bloody barren craters.
I feel powerful like I have something to prove.
Like I am somehow winning in dominance by defeating her.
When I eat a pomegranate, I cut its beating heart in half.
I don’t feel sorry about the corpse that lies before me.
Photo by Elina Sitnikova on Unsplash
