He Plucked the Peach

He plucked the peach before the fuzz had time to grow— 

before the sun could warm its skin, before the roots knew the taste of rain.

A child,

still learning the language of laughter,

still tangled in lullabies,

was torn from innocence

and handed the vocabulary of fear.

Hands meant to hold gently

became storms,

grabbing, gripping,

stealing the sweetness

that was not yet ripe.

You see,

the orchard tells the truth,

a fruit taken too soon, collapses,

carries the sourness of theft.

It bruises easier,

its skin too tender,

its seed unfinished.

That’s what abuse is—

a plucking,

a ripping,

a taking before becoming.

And the child,

forced to carry the weight of an orchard

she never planted,

walks through life

with the taste of bitterness on their tongue,

with the question of “why?”

etched into their skin.

But listen—

even a plucked peach has a story.

Even a fruit wounded by greedy hands

can still whisper to the wind,

I was meant for sweetness,

I was meant for harvest,

I was meant to ripen.

And one day,

when the orchard learns to heal itself,

when we guard the trees,

when we refuse to look away,

no hand will pluck a peach

before the fuzz has time to grow.