The passionfruit doesn’t pretend. It is what it is—chaotic, unashamed. I stare at it too long, feeling something I can’t name.

The best laughter is that of a donkey and child. The mango was a portal.

Juice ran down my fingers like melted sunlight. Nothing else mattered.

I wasn’t in my kitchen anymore. The air shifted. The world softened.

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A slice on my tongue—bright, sharp, real. Even the smallest things offer something. Even me. Even you.

The world is waiting. The basket is filling. The fruit does not fear transformation. I wonder if I could be like that.

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A severed pineapple crown still holds its shape, waiting. A mandarin peel curls in on itself, stiff with memory. The kiwi? It surrenders. Some things fight becoming. Others know it is inevitable.

The fuzz gave way, the green split open—vivid, alive, unafraid. I wonder what it’s like to exist without resistance.

The way my mother’s hands peeled these so easily, like she knew how to make the world soft. I try. It opens. A quiet kind of love.

A message I don’t open. A fruit I do. The past and the present, peeling away.
This is going to be sweet. Sharp, alive.

The Weight of Small Things—
a mandarin in my palm. Light, too light. A tiny planet, a secret, a soul. I peel it. It doesn’t resist. Some things are meant to be let go of.

I press the knife to its skin. It resists—just enough to make me wonder. The blade sinks in. The pineapple shudders. Maybe it’s my imagination. Juice wells up, thick and golden. Almost red.
I should stop. But stopping is the same as losing…

The kitchen hums with uneasy silence. A fan whirs. The knife waits. The pineapple sits, armored and ancient, daring me to make the first move. This is no ordinary fruit. This is something older. Something that knows.