my mother slices it like surgery.
stern. reverent.
as if inside the husk,
there is something holy to be revealed.

the flesh splits open
freckled with black seeds,
like a sombre sky withholding too much gravity at once
it always looks colder than it tastes.

i eat it in silence.
not out of gratitude
but out of fear that speaking might break the spell.
or worse, that i might say
thank you and mean please don't die.

there is sometimes a softness to the cutting
and the slicing and the eating.
sometimes the spoon digging in a nothing-flavour.
like biting into a well-behaved, structured cloud
the one that then rains inside you.

once, while watching TV,
she in excitement called a couple cute
then went completely silent,
as if the word had startled her.
as if she'd remembered
she wasn’t allowed to say that anymore.
not after the dim years.
not after the man who left
and the world that let him.

she never talks about love.
and i never ask.
i’ve made myself into a man,
armor-first,
like a child ducking to protect a mother.
we don’t do flowers.
or pink.
or crushes.
i pretend not to like love songs
so she doesn’t flinch.

and still,
every night,
she slices the dragonfruit.
i eat it.
quietly.
like a truce.
like i’m trying to love her
without hurting her more.