tastes own medicine

Now that I am finally as alone as I feel,
I pluck fruit from the mirror -
inspect it, and peel.

No bruises - this harvest
is without a spot.
To the touch, the fresh skin
is unbroken, but soft.

Might have been picked early,
or might have ripened in youth;
might have watched mornings brighten
and heard the birds' tune;
might have got too enamored,
and been plucked too soon.

Because of a valor
like orange under freeze -
with the rainbow of mangoes
it swung from its tree,
coloring the branches,
hiding its young green -
parading instead
the brave shade the world sees.

As I pull it away -
shed the last of the skin,
I lick my lips, craving sweetness
from between peel and pit,

I grow hungry, excited:
I sink my teeth in! ...

The taste is so bitter.
I should spit and forget.