Plum Over Sink, Or, The Run

This plum, it wasn't just ripe.

It was… too much.

Soft give under my thumb,

a dark, bruised skin.

I knew it.

Bite down, and it burst.

A wet, hot gush,

sweet-sour, thick as blood.

Ran down my chin, yes,

then my wrist, sticky,

a rivulet.

Didn't even think.

Just leaned. Over the sink,

the white porcelain.

Let it run. Let it make its own mess.

The pit, slick and brown,

a tiny skull in my palm.

The smell, almost rotten,

but good. For a second,

just for a second, I forgot

how to be careful.