Untouched are the tomatoes. Bruised and misshaped—over-farmed to just be thrown out. We couldn’t see their potential. If only we’d given them a better chance, a chance to teach our children that the bruises didn’t matter and that the taste is just as sweet.
Because there’s no such thing as perfect — we’ve engineered it, propaganda for societal expectation. A mechanism for systemic poverty and a scapegoat for capitalism’s cycle of abuse. Who knew produce had so much to say?
There’s silence — misinformation holding our tongues, mouths sown shut as we commit linguicide — the truth died with the tomatoes. Self-serving weeds left us starving. Here we are with dying crops and dying minds and hands that no longer know fervor.
People have been screaming about the end of the world for the last century — and maybe it is, and maybe we aren't worth saving. If you are not willing to save yourself, why would someone else save you?
Rest assured, Earth will save herself.
©2022 Niki Madore