Pomegranate

It tastes of freedom.

Prosperine (1874) by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I saw a picture
The other day
Of the girl
You said you loved—
She looked nothing like me

She was all
Sunken eyes
And hollowed cheeks
Ribs poking through skin
And a malleable spine

She spoke softly
Moved tentatively
Sought permission
Before every thought
Every whisper

She took you
At your word
Believing yours
More than she believed her own
Molded and contorted for your consumption

You were an illusionist
She was awestruck
At the deception of her senses
Affections appearing and disappearing
Like cheap sleight of hand tricks

You became a ventriloquist
And she became your puppet
Repeating your hollow affirmations
To her blurry reflection
Not once questioning their veracity

And even when you left—
When the illusion had been shattered—
Your voice still laced
My every thought
Every whisper

All alone I dismantled
The reality you built for me
Pried your fingers from my neck
And learned to speak
Without apology

I began to eat decadently 
Learning to appreciate the pomegranate
The labor of love needed
To taste of its fruits
And allowed my skin to grow supple

I cut my hair
And painted my nails
Swayed my hips
And outstretched my arms
I moved with abandon

I wrote love letters
To strangers
And people I have yet to meet
Baptized myself
In showers of adoration

I offered my tears
As libations
At the altar
Of my past self
Of my highest self

I was no longer Icarus
Reaching for the sun’s warmth
But Apollo
Basking in its rays
Knowing it shines just for me