Grapes and Spit

Still, I try to hand you a little piece of me every day:
a single grape pulled from a vine of many.

Still, you make a face at almost every bite. 

Against my better judgement, I just can’t stop trying
to feed you, you who would rather find a bitter aftertaste
in anything by way of my mind’s tongue.

Still, I share a bite a day.

Still, I choke down the rest, lonesome.

One grape really doesn’t taste that much different
from the rest, I suppose, and no amount of love
will change that.

Still, I keep trying.

Still, you persist in finding and crushing
the unwelcome seed in each one, groaning
while asking no questions.

You spit half-chewed rotten fruit in my face,
insisting it’s better now. That I should enjoy it.
You don’t understand that even my own spit
still tastes better than yours.

Still, I keep trying.
Still, you persist.

Still, I feed you.
Still, you spit. 

Still.

December 28, 2025