Find me at my most vulnerable place, and I will tell you not to grab me from the ground. I can not allow you to hold me while my insides feel raw and my outside delicate.

A peach, a plum, an overripe papaya; whatever fruit you’d like to equate me to will serve its poetic purpose.

While I may appear subdued, ripe for the picking, I need time to build a shell of lightly coated independence, time to soften to the idea of not being okay, before I allow you to hold me in a state of not okay. I need time to dress this body in just-fine smiles and cap my nerves like exposed wires. Because at my most vulnerable place, I’ll do anything to resemble steal over strawberries.

A note from the sensitive side of this human vessel.