Bright pink,

Deep red,

Hints of yellow leathery skin, 

Leafy green tipped scales encasing the clavicle of its body,

A Dragon fruit. 

I tell legends of a time when masking wasn’t tasking 

It was a performance of a fierce serpent only visible to its beholder, 

Harvested in midsummer,

gathered to be christened unique.

I was fascinating before I became bizarre, 

A beautifully carved key only finite to the sealed lock.

An orchid in a field of dandelions. 

Only dazed by the idea of substance. 

An unending dissonance pending consonance. 

Eccentric and peculiar is my designation.

An exotic pattern of curls and frills that insulate my face, 

Succulent white pulp and seeds dotted throughout the white flesh, 

Striking scattered freckles vailing the mahogany pores of skin, 

Mildly sweet hybrid of kiwi and pear a cross between worlds, 

Worlds designed to lock me out, 

Throw the key to crumbling hierarchy of muggle world

Unfit for the pathological society. 

I don’t taste like I act.

A loser

By definition a social misfit masking my core essence 

All the rest assume the position of apple or orange

Predictable, uniform, and balanced.

But my mind is a dragon fruit, 

My thoughts are born from midnight blossoms,

Insulated with a million miniscule hidden complexities 

that the muggle world isn’t privy too. 

I’m isolated sweetness packed in thick peel chambers.