In my bitter sixteens I tasted like sweet, succulent blackberries. As dark as I presented myself, my skin oozed red sap onto anyone with lingering touches and my leaves unwillingly engulfed the entirety of the world around me.
At eighteen, I felt elevated and acidic, like luscious red raspberries. I wanted to be sweet but with a bite. I wanted to touch every part of every body, every tip of every finger. The lingering touches were not enough, I wanted you to soak in my acidity while you relished in my sweet disposition.
At twenty, I became a multi-seeded, multi-faceted pomegranate. I was easily plucked, but not easily opened and once inside I was not one, I was many. I did not know myself and neither would anyone else. Eat me and you will never see winter again; I will bring eternal summers but that is all you will ever know.
At twenty-five, I am a grape: rotting into a tasteful drink. Soon I will be fine as wine but for now I am shriveling. My heavenly elixir both sweet and acidic, my drink made of many. Now, I will intoxicate you.