no one taught me to gut peaches

a poem by Karis Koh

This piece includes references to self-injury

i peeled the rind of morning off my shoulder

like it owed me silence

the sun leaking pulpdrip static—

sweet rot on my clavicle.

her voice was a fruit knife jagged at the syllables. she carved me in slowfruit

and left the rind on the floor.

i remember that day she found the slice marks,

                 spineward and peach-pink

like i’d been peeled from the inside.

she brought gauze    and a bowl of blueberries—

       as if sugar could cauterise a wound—

but her hands shook like wet paper

         and i laughed

            because i’d already

                  been carving supper

                  from my own ribs.

i don’t remember her crying

only the way she plucked the fruit flies

            off my sill like daisy petals like it meant anything.

i remember how every sentence ended in a seedless threat, her voice syrup-thick then sweet.

my throat became a compost heap

of all the “i’ll be better”s i swallowed

until i started rotting in my own mouth.

i think she loved me like overripe cherries

         —soft, then sudden pit: a scream with a stem still on.

she threw a nectarine at the wall once,

it split like a softhead. and for a second i thought

         something honest had come out. but no,

just juice & noise & the pit on the floor like a clot.

she was all mirrorfruit:

     pretty until you bit in; first pulp then teeth.

and now—i see her in the grocery store,

her hair shorter,

she’s pressing her thumb into peaches like they owe her softness.

she doesn’t look

    but i can see her checking her hands for juiceghosts,

the sticky print of me

     still

        fermenting

             under her fingernails.

                i don’t want her dead anymore.

                      just

                        un-

                        tender

                 like a forgotten bruise

                      in the back of the fridge.

but nevertheless—

    some nights i wake with a pit in my mouth and it’s hers.

               still warm. still bleeding.

              i plant it anyway. not for closure.

      not for her. just to see

                 if anything else

                     dies.

✶

Karis Koh (she/her) is an aspiring teen writer and poet who delves into emotional fissures and the complexities of the human experience. Beyond writing, she finds comfort in music and film. She is especially drawn to Se7en, The Grand Budapest Hotel, and the emotional depth of Radiohead’s music, as they reflect her interest in complex emotions and layered narratives.