One-hundred and Ninety-five: Apologise

I refuse to eat bruised peaches and I won’t apologise for it.
Hunger strikes are easy, peasy lemon squeezy. All you
have to do is piss me off; I will marinate in my fury
at the carelessness of your words. Haven’t you heard?
I like to tear out my pips and throw them at you,
just to hear the sound they make when they hit you
in ways my heart cannot. I am the worst at feeling;
it comes too easily to me. I am irreversibly readable,
vying to be the First Liar like so many of you.

You see, being a crossword puzzle comes naturally
to me and I love to give you clues one by one but this
is only because I can only think of one question
at a time. I don’t even have my own answers but
when I can read the cheat-sheet, that means
that you can too. Suddenly not so interesting, huh?
I bet you like me more when I didn’t make sense.
Elusive as lychee juice that you can taste
at the back of your throat. I suppose I am not
so easy to swallow when I am whole.

But I won’t apologise for it.

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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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