She is perfect, tasty, ready and ripe. I had devoured her with impatient delight. But the more I eat and indulge in her, the more I notice she has some overripe spots, or some hidden blemishes that lie comfortably in her skin. Its tarnished my exquisite taste in fruits. It is no longer a perfect fruit, either way, it was going to become rotten eventually… it’s rotten. Well this is no matter, this is no tragedy- as the orchard is vast, and will always possess a remedy. I can invariably select another fruit, no matter the season, no matter the circumstances, new fruit will be undeniably awaiting. If I taste a fruit with a flaw, the whole concept is ruined, even if its skin has so little to been touched by a horrid bug. That fruit is tainted, it’s infected, it’s not clean. I am clean! I have erased the residue of any fruit that has spoiled my lips, so that I can present an outstretched tongue to next one’s kiss. I am clean. And when once again I am hungry, I pick fruits to come and go as I please. Perfection doesn’t rot, yet somewhere deep in me it has always lingered- the despised rot. As if this whole time I was greedily searching, for that something I am not.