The Greedy Hands decided for me

Among the dull crates,

splintered by the Greedy Hands and thwarted by the berating heat,

laid my life with nothing to predate.


It was all I knew as I sat

alongside the motley of colors I longed to be

and dodging a gnat—it was grey in contrast.


Brown wood complemented by scarlet, gold, lime—

Scarlet. Gold. Lime. The holy prize.

The colors deemed by the Greedy Hands as divine.


And I knew I wasn’t ready;

I wasn’t ripe or golden or even a faint pale pink,

but I was surrounded by the bloomed many.


They galavanted in their prime, their rich coats of red

which was the greatest symbol of the being one that would be chosen,

and I was always left believing this crate would be my deathbed.


Here I would rot, skipping past the golden standard

and instead becoming a jaded, discarded green,

left angered and unanswered,


but then I was met by the wrinkled fingertips.


I wasn’t prepared nor ripened for the taking,

yet somehow I caught the eye

of the Greedy Hands—of some sick craving


and I was at odds.

was it something I wanted—to be chosen and picked—for myself

or was it something that I saw in others and a wish from the gods?


because when the Greedy Hands wrapped around me,

nails digging into my skin in a way I saw others enjoy,

my skin bruised and cracked, sending me to my knees.


and quickly, I was discarded

with the imprints and bruises and stains,

and I realized that I should have stayed guarded.


For this, I should not have hoped

or envied or yearned for or wished to mature

because I was not ripe for the taking,


and this can never be revoked.