Your golden brown skin hides so much from me, dry and flaking it repulses me at first, pushes me away, but I know the wonders that lie underneath. Never judge a book by it’s ageing, dead cover.
Inside is where your true meaning is found, your curves offer movement, your sharpness brings me to tears. I love the way you taste, no matter how you arrive on my tongue it is always a moment to be savoured, sweet at times, sour at others.
Sliced through you reveal your heart, wrapped in so many layers of protection, hidden away from the world. A tortured soul deep within. Each layer of your protection grown and cultivated with purpose, keeping your core safe that it may grow again, that you may have the chance to heal and offer up life anew.
In my hands your ageing skin crackles and crumbles, your brown husk falls away to reveal a fresh version of you.
I pause, giving you a final moment of rest, a final feeling of belonging, of completeness. You are whole.
My plans for you are set, as they always are. An age old tradition that we must hold to, strengthening our will in the knowledge of your fulfilment.
The blade you fear is next, slicing you in half, brutally expected. You know it has to be this way and with the first cut made you finally start to realise your true being.
Again and again the knife slashes at you until you are reduced to rubble. You will never be whole again, never be rebuilt. It must be this way.
The blade is slick with your juices, its work is done.
I gently bring your pieces back together but I cannot reshape you. In cupped hands I lift the these pieces of you, a final touch, cool and moist on my palm, your innards as colourless as your core, a beguiling transulency soon to be realised.
I raise you up for your final journey, offering you to the heavens before I tip you into the waiting depths below, the fiery pit, your final resting place.
Add butter and crushed garlic, fry until soft.