The Masochistic Pomegranate

Pomegranates are my favorite fruit to eat. There are at least one hundred kernels inside one pomegranate. I don't know, there's something to the idea of a plethora of options but the security of one outcome. One bittersweet morsel to chew and devour... Then there's something to the idea of the remains of the shell. A jagged desolate of nothing to prove or represent. Completely stripped and only a nakedness remains. Then the color. Red red red red red red so red. It's so red that even my mother had always warned me growing up,
"Don't wear your nice dress while you eat that please. It'll stain."
And so I wore my torn and tattered things. There was a sense of destruction that it could do to me. Then there was the sense of its defeat. Eating a pomegranate is me at my most sadistic. I love the mess it makes and how utterly unlike it was before. Eating a pomegrante is me at my most turned on. I love the sweet fragrance in my nose and the taste upon my lips. Lick lick lick lick lick lick. It lingers in my mouth and I long for its texture and turnabout among the space between my cheeks.
Mmm...mmhm.