I used to say that men aged like wine. And women aged like unpreserved fruit. Now these concepts aren’t really mine, but I still maintain their truth. Because whether a fellow gets sour or mellow, he still obtains some use. But when a women gets dried up or sags down-she gets traded for something new. Like fruit. Tossed out and composted then walked on like she’s dirt-the condition of her flesh impresses-on others what she’s worth. She’s cursed with the fate of a sell-by date, and SOME are packed up and shipped off and sold by weight. And they say, that it’s ok. We’re the fairest sex so it’s best that we’re treated this way. A major in commodity, we’re not permitted our anonymity. The fruit of this womb is set to consume, and I shouldn’t presume, to say what comes through. But it’s untrue. Cause I’m made of meat and bleed, didn’t come from dirt or seed. And I PLEAD with this patriarchal society to see ME. Beyond the flesh that bruises is a person who thinks and feels and chooses, and I think I feel my choices being taken away from me. And you call me a peach, and I scream because a peach don’t bleed. when you cut it. And a seed won’t grow just cause you love it. And you think you know, but you can shove it because I am so fucking far above it. And my sisters, and mothers, and lovers and friends weren’t born on this planet to be ate up by men. So I mean what I say when I’m talking to you, a woman’s a person and not some sort of fruit. So you’re fucked for biting more than you can chew-Cause this peach is fighting, and she’s coming for you.