Why do I let you scare and annoy me as if this were not the age of pineapples, as if I were not the pineapple flesh? Why does a plane knock over a tower, why do a hundred pinky fingers manage to lift my heavy old body?
Why do I let you ugly hearted people tell me what I am not? Why do I let you lie to me like that? Why do we all do this-- since every act of unasked telling is an act of force, and we, the pineapples, advertised to and taught, bred in our particular stems, have sat like stupid Ghandis, war paint forgotten in the toybox?
Why don't I go right ahead. Build my two room shack of mud and bamboo. Live my life with more than just a flicker. Be a bright citron in arcadia. Watch my arms rumple in the sun [pocked with toothmark scars from when I bit my arm to stop thinking about you] as years go by, till finally, they drop off like old zucchinis. Why not, when you have scared me like this, when you have come inside me and I have been wrecked by it, stop thinking about the wreckage the accident of your life and start thinking about how much water the tomatoes need if I am going to be able to eat.
I'm as old as 27 used to be-- much older than it is now. In America, you are either unscathed or all scarred. I'm scared that the way you are, is the way that all people's hearts really claw.
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