The dissection of my torso with a pairing knife as if I were a seeded watermelon I'd prefer to be cut slow and gentle with a pairing knife-- the type of knife they only use for sickly-ripe fruit. I wear bruised brown lips-- all syrup from the impact of kisses-- I'm okay with being taken apart if you give me the respect of a strawberry-- the wisdom of a plantain or the patient stubble of a white peach who was also my grandmother-- the a peach- pit encased in blood and knee bone-- I will warn you that other boys say that I don't come apart easy-- they gossip that my skin can be like a watermelon-- a seeded watermelon-- oblong and wriggling in the cage of the shopping cart-- Bruises on watermelons don't count. You may have to use pliers-- I've been cinched up tight like turkey necks and voodoo-- sewn shut wire-jaws of the flounder at the market-- agape and still tasting salt water in prayer-- Snap the white lace bra I don't wear anymore-- make the incision at the base of my sternum-- like Christmas or birthdays or other days made for boys to break bows with pliers-- the pomegranate beads under my skin will paint the bra violets the kind of blood only underneath a bruise-- I know you imagined we all bleed like apples-- Oh! Boys are scared of dissecting me-- they're still scared of growing watermelons in their stomachs and still stinging from the last time they mistook an apple for a rib cage-- for love-- for lips for bruises-- for Eve-- oh Eve! Eve who I dissected at the base of the sternum like a pomegranate just to see if she looked like me on the inside-- Eve with the black seeds and the broken pairing knives in between her ribs left over from boys who gave up-- they were always to dull to cut us-- to figure us out-- I was the watermelon and she was the pomegranate-- and we spelled temptation with fractured bones and brown bruised lips-- she was willing to pretend I was a peach if I could forget she was the apple with the purple blood. Cut me with the pairing knife take your time-- there's lots of seeds.