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Developed, Ready, Harvest Me

Left reeling, raw, like an itchy mosquito bite slapped to make the venom dissipate. 

Strings of words wrapped around my windpipe, scalding it to blisters. Ripe. 


Peaches on trees, fresh and juicy. Eaten by bees vibrating in buzzes.

Wet and plump, like my lips from your bitter kisses. Your kisses, ripe. 


Lace wrapped around my wrists to keep me from fighting you. Fighting her.

I drank your poison, pleasured you. My sweet bile stuck in my throat. My hopes were ripe. 


Still you hypnotized me in portals green as my envy, as my dragon fire wrath. 

Hate took the place of pulsating love. My heart shriveled like a dehydrated strawberry, ripe.


Fucked, lusted, not the one, not good enough, the other one, the lesser one, the naive one.

Feed. You feed off my self pity, my self worth, my desire to still hear your hiss. Because I’m ripe.


You drank from my fountain of youth to pull you back to the past when your heart wasn’t polluted.

Chained to me like an umbilical cord stripping me of nutrients so you could thrive. Be ripe. 


I took my shears and tore you from me but you still appear like sugar ants in the spring. 

A beetle I’ll trap in a jar when the time permits. Because my brain is also ripe.


      Piper White

Piper White is a lover of fiction, horror and Stephen King. Although fiction is her niche, she loves to dabble in poetry in her free time. She may be named after a witch, but she promises not to hex you.

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