by Ayla Sullivan
Today I held an avocado in my hands and I called it my secret
I split it in half and found there would always be
This empty piece
Moulded by what it attached itself to for so long
That it left a chasm in its center
And found the bits of itself pushed outward towards the edges
But the piece could not be bitter
It was still cream against my lips
And congealed itself into the best of its ability
Its other half looked put together
Full of wood where its twin was not
But it did not make it anymore whole
Because the wood had been shared and compressed for so long
That in fact it was missing the piece that wrapped around it in the first place
And instead of sharing this core
Entangling themselves around it
One was left alone with the weight of what they created
What they grew around
The seed was left to one
And in the end this wood was forced to be ripped out from it
To become equally as empty as the other half
And neither one of them seemed to be as whole as they were before
There are days when I float in the gulf of your hazel eyes and I come to terms with the empty chasm you have left inside of me
That I’ve become bereft of what we shared
And you stole the core
But then I realise
I have been left with what we shared
A weight so deep it has wedged itself in my gut
Cut harshly into my ribs
And I’m praying
Every day
For it to be ripped out from me
So I can understand what it feels like to be you.