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.