Sociological Grapefruit Massacre

Expectations abrade a fragile body 

rendering deflated pulp. 

Juice running a sticky acidic casualty 

under my knobbed knuckles. 

I ignore the sting 

in my scratches, scraping 

meat until bitter rind 

reveals my failed attempts 

at satisfaction. Still 

I bludgeon in willing violence, 

or blindly, 

leaving the carapace 

for the next lover wielding 

their own serrated spoon.