Bruised Fruit
written by: Emma Wells
Spirals of discontent distil,
overpowering vapours
invade core, seeds, flesh,
tiny pockets of soul,
fill with deadened beats.
Life is a drab funeral march,
strangled of colour.
I remind myself: I am alive,
bruised but not deadened.
Keep reaching. Head up to the sun.
Stay strong. Hold your vine.
Yet, I struggle.
Sneers scream too loudly,
conveying more than tongues;
bullies are cowards:
opinionated yet mute,
locked in beige-box houses.
My hold loosens,
losing hope:
bedraggled, tired, weather-beaten,
I untie my fruit parachute,
let go…
…plummet hard to stony ground.
Exhausted, bone dry,
sun-baked,
I land heavily,
bruises bloom
in purpling ink
like budding floral heads.
With time, grassy heaven breathes me in,
soothing bruised skin
with dew-licked lips;
a medicinal tonic trickles in,
refilling empty voids,
healing battered skin,
refitting missing parts.
My seeds spill,
disperse in building winds,
caressing my plum-rich scars,
whispering them closed,
silently stitching me anew.
Years pass,
rotate, seasons spin,
as I re-anchor,
allowing a single seed
to prosper,
stretching tall,
burrowing deep…
I am genetically unique,
reborn and ready,
to open new chapters
with crisp, white pages,
awaiting creative impressions,
penned in spilled, damson ink.
NOTE:
Based on the Prompt – The Last Fruit
- She-Wolf - October 10, 2026
- Bruised Fruit - September 11, 2026
- Nan’s Fake Pearls - July 20, 2026
