On Opening a Passion Fruit

The fruit was black tinged magenta, waxy outside like ink.
it felt hollow if I squeezed it. like dried orange. It weighed 2 grams,
two paper clips.
I pushed the knife into the fruit, dented before sliced, jaundice juice bled on formica.
When I halved it, it yielded to me sections the color of bile, seeded like pomegranate nestled in a golf-white hemisphere of rind lined rind, a perfect separation between white and dark: tangy, sweet, minty, tingling, each with a black pit like termite’s skin or beetle’s.
There were three prickled areas where the seeds attached their membranes. There were fine purple veins inside.

I teethed the seeds in one half, they juiced my ivories. The pits slid down, gathering to a knot like players on ice at a puck: in a place just below my uvula.
I saved the other half.


Author: April Line Writing

Writing about whatever the f*ck I want.

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