Cherry Red

As a little girl

I stood upon tiptoes

while picking cherry tomatoes

from my grandfather’s garden.

As a woman

I stand on tiptoes

waltzing around words

spilling from his mouth.

Cherry red

lips pressed against mine

without the thought

of how I would feel

because I did not plead

the case of consent.

Calloused palms

grasp my hair in waves

of regret as his eyes

mirror bodies frozen in time.

Cherry red

tears spill from my eyes

for those who did not

have the strength to speak up,

so I yell until my lungs burn

and the lost souls form

sinking holes within the bottom

of my acidic stomach.

The collapsed

hearts below the surface

beat to be released from

the abyss of shame

even if their words

did not travel up the vines

of thorn filled roses.

As a little girl

I stood upon tiptoes

while picking cherry tomatoes

and I imagine what life

would be like if I stayed

within the garden.