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my branches become damp

moistened by a rain of worried thoughts

my figs are poisoned

the ripe flesh

the red flesh

a smeared tapestry on concrete

pulp in between rough stone

i still see one light bulb

hanging on the soft arms

of my mother

and its seeds whisper to me

a secret of safe haven

its hue looks like grass stain

it looks like everyone else's

i am not everyone else

and what of the rim

around the fruit of my labor

my nails are too blunt to pierce

the porous shell

in bends under my short stubby thumbs

i press harder

i release

press

release

press

release

its heart does not beat

i am no surgeon

but i take up a scalpel anyway

if this had been my bigger dream

the tips of my hands would not be blistered

its doors would have opened to me

like lips into a smile

i would have ripped its head in half

from jaw to skull

and drank sweet wine

my canines would have

burst each bubble of nectar

greedy

hungry

needy

my smooth fingers would have

planted its small, frail, timid,

seeds.

but that fig was rotten anyway

thats what they said

i never really saw it

in its ghastly ruin

About the Author:

Vera is a 15-year-old aspiring writer, currently exploring her capabilities as a writer. Born and raised in Singapore, she has constantly dreamed of the possibilities of her mind and heart being recognised through words. From the days of confidently reciting her ABC’s in front of her kindergarten classroom, the wonders of words have captivated her to the core. Growing up with the enchanting tales of Beatrix Potter and Roald Dahl, each whimsical sentence and poetic verse fueled her imagination. Poetry became her love language to the world. Now, as she navigates the complexities of adolescence, she seeks to grasp onto the remnants of her childhood innocence through stories and words. She extends her gratitude for supporting her little light of hope. Happy reading!