Fruit Fetish

My psychiatrist—
an old man who trusts me
but shouldn’t—
hands me a pile of pink amphetamines
for my overactive mind.
They burst inside me like tangerines;
but don't quench
my thirst to be a raspberry
instead of a girl—
tart, tight, moldy in the kitchen sink.

Last Monday, I confessed to him
I refuse intimacy.
I am not skinny enough
for desires.
Instead, I wish I were a piece of fruit in place of a woman—
never had the discipline
to starve,
too cowardly for self-embrace;
not close enough
to my own bones
to know what they want.

I linger over slices of other girls
who live in my head, like
my boyfriend’s ex, a sweet strawberry
who graduated from Amherst.
She’s turning me into a plum, I say,
my libido wilting under the weight
of comparison.
My psychiatrist tells me
I’m skinny enough
to have real desires—
he thinks they’re for fruit.
I look away,
my smile
dribbling like
an overripe peach.