Pulp

Once a warm July summer 
Now a cool October evening
I have changed so deeply- 
Yet parts of me still look the same
I think the most important memories are held in my chest
I check that my heart is still there
I guess it is slightly bigger than a lemon,
It looks the same.
I squeeze it until pulp oozes out, bitterness pinching my cheeks
In my hands it feels warm and sticky
The warmth reminds me that I am alive;
And the stickiness is just trying to hold old memories altogether
I once had heard that change is inevitable
So I am making lemonade

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