A poem

By E. Milimoh

Tomatoes. What an imposter fruit, nothing but sour water filled balloons, usually enjoyed by varmint.

Tomatoes have only ever been deceptive.

Pretty and plump to the eye and to the touch.

A facade to sneak between hamburger buns and underneath the leaves of my salad.

Maybe tomatoes read this poem. 

Tomatoes kissed me yesterday.

But it wasn’t bitter or soggy or as appalling as I remember.

It was honest and welcoming, like any other fruit and not just a vegetable. 

Deception can be fleeting if there isn’t something to remind you why you freaking hate tomatoes.