Alison

17

Persephone

Eat the pomegranates summer bore in her verdant arms, for they’re much sweeter than he ever was. He was filled with teeth and bitterness, yet you still ate. You were famished, and he knew. He left you empty.

His ivy wound around your pale wrists—you still have the red bumps that tattooed poisoned promises into your skin. You’ve scratched them to the point that they will never heal. These are scars you want to bleed.

He was only a weed in the end. You count the pomegranate seeds planted in your palm: one for the love he swore, one for the love he bore, one for the love he didn’t care for. Close your eyes and shed your tired skin. Summer awaits you.