I Wish My Name Was Clementine – Carrie Penrod

You peel me open like a clementine,
every instance your hands drag
over me, I’m left with nothing
between us but sighs and flesh
and whispers of thoughts of love
and adoration that pierces
my thick skin too deep.
You tell me I must want you to bare
me down to my core because I open
so easily under your fingers
that catch like fishhooks
in pond scum on stomach, sides, thighs,
trying to peel back the layers.
I want my name to be Clementine
so that I can be sweeter than I am,
so that I can be opened
like ripe fruit begging 
to be eaten, taken for all 
I have to give, split
into sevenths, pith eaten.

Carrie Elizabeth Penrod is a recent MFA graduate from Mississippi University for Women. She currently resides in Indiana with her cats. Her work can be read at Anti-Heroin Chic, Sad Girls Club Lit, Prometheus Dreaming, Button Poetry’s Instagram, and corn stalks.

Photo by Eva Bronzini on Pexels.com