The Pear

They picked the pear first—  

slim neck, tapering waist,  

a soft green curve, blushing faintly  

like it knew it was beautiful.  

Perfect. Photogenic.  

Set it on a pedestal,  

let the light kiss its skin just right.  

The apple waited. Round, bold,  

hips wide as orchards,  

a bite already taken—  

too much, they whispered. Too full.  

No space for excess in this bowl.  

Shined it anyway,  

left it at the back, pretending it belonged.  

The banana? Too funny.  

All angles, awkward yellow grin,  

standing there like it didn’t get the joke.  

No one wants curves that bend the wrong way.  

Not elegant enough, not slender enough,  

not enough.  

They passed over the plum—  

small, dark, dense with sweetness,  

its skin stretched tight over a heart  

it never got to show.  

A grapefruit? God, no. Too loud,  

too pink, too much rind to peel away.  

And there, behind them all,  

a melon. Heavy with itself.  

Taking up space, unapologetic,  

as if it didn’t know it should shrink,  

tuck itself in,  

be less.  

But they only wanted the pear.  

The idea of hunger,  

not the taste of it.  

Something light enough  

to forget the weight of wanting.