I ate a tomatoe, right from the vine.

They were heavy on the vine, pulling down the weight of the world with their eagerness to become something else.

So I plucked it, right from the vine. Small, red, and just firm enough to make a difference in a salad.

I ate a tomato from the vine, wondered if fall was truly here. Wrapped my coat around me and thought about how I made it another year.

There were no scars on the outside, I made sure people had no questions. Though my eyes were sad, I took the time to paint smiles on my face, replacing the sadness with a happier time.

I wanted nothing more than to be enough, not burdened by tears or of the weight of things I could not become.

I ate a tomato from the vine, goobled it right up. I did not care if I was standing in a garden that was not my own, I wanted to feel something special.

The tears came, just as I swallowed, my body ached in disdain. I shouldn’t eat all the things I find on the vine, shouldn’t hate the harvest this much.

But there are still holes in my armor, where the sunlight gets in. I, too, want to fix them, stand bold and tall in the autumn sun.

I ate a tomato straight from the vine, and I have not been the same since.