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Mango
You bought a mango
to please me.
We sat on a rock to eat it.
You sliced me pieces,
and I ate them.
You saved little
for yourself. Not
selflessness:
ineffectiveness.
If I could, I'd change
the fruit,
but that was just it�
how the tongue feels
sliding between skin
and curved slices of flesh,
stripping out what it wants,
as if forcing itself
against another tongue.
The mango skin
was pleasantly tight.
You watched me
lick and consume
and discard what you'd cut.
You put a hand
on my arm,
finally. Why
didn't you lean in
a little further
instead of expecting
a compromise?
If you had only
made me taste
how the mango was to you,
sweet, chalky flesh
still scenting my mouth,
I would have let
you decide me,
for a moment.
As it was,
you gathered the green skin.
I held onto
the orange pit
to gnaw it
where it's soft and gives.
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