You picked me when I was fresh, my skin firm and flesh tasty, dripping with dew. Yet deep within, my seeds grew bitter, soiled from my doubt that your hunger could last long enough to consume all of me.
And still now I remain certain you will chase new tastes and cave to new cravings. You will discard me when I am wrinkled, rotting and half-eaten, never to be whole again. You will return to the orchard, passing me up for something sweeter in your meal.