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I don’t even like peaches but I wish I did. The colors of crimson and yellow speckled throughout remind me of a sunset. I hate how squishy peaches feel they are so easily bruised I’m not sure how long it’ll last. The squishier the sweeter they say but I disagree. Peaches are not sweet to me. They remind me of a mean girl or sort of facade that one may have. Like my ex-best friend and her peach flavored chapstick telling lies of comfort. Peaches are fake. They’re mean, but I can’t help to want to be a peach.

Wow, It didn’t take long for my precious, “perfect” peach to rot. I tried to salvage what was left but I ended up just tossing it. Every time I opened the fridge I’d see the peach glaring at me drowning me in guilt, but as each day passed the glare turned into a cry for help. The cracks were showing and little miss Georgia Peach was starting to beg for mercy. Weird, I was jealous of a peach I should have been more forgiving but at last all things lose their glamour over time although I can’t help but I miss my peach.