Hanging from the tree... will they ever pick me?
Sour, unripe fruit, still fruitless at the root.
I deserve love, though I never learned to blossom.
“No you don’t,” they said. “You lack the sweetness... that’s the problem.”
Well indeed I am sour, and indeed I am unripe,
But no one watered me, no sun stayed a long time.
You called it my nature, my choice, my fault,
But no one stayed long enough to soften the salt.
I learned early that sour is something to hide,
That need is a stain that turns hands aside.
They said, “If you were sweeter, we’d stay,” and I tried..
I stopped myself growing just to survive.
I counted the years by the silence they made,
Learned absence by heart, learned love as delay.
If only the ready are chosen is true,
Then I must have been born just a moment too soon.
Call me bitter, if the bitterness helps you sleep,
How easy it is to withhold love from the weak.
You only adore what asks for no care,
Fruit ripened alone, already prepared.
But ripeness was never a promise or prize,
Just a demand made by mouths passing by.
I was asked to be sweet, to be whole, to be sound,
Before I was watered, before I was found.
So if I taste sour, remember this truth:
It’s the flavor of waiting for love since my youth.
I stayed on that branch longer than fair,
Hoping someone would notice I was worth being there.
