Love tastes like fruit.

Sometimes, a strawberry—

sweet, soft, tiny seeds hiding in plain sight.

You bite, you taste, you realize it’s more than you thought.

Other times, it’s a pomegranate.

Messy. Bitter. Beautiful.

You have to be patient, take your time,

open it carefully,

discover every hidden seed,

each one sharp, each one sweet.

You learn it slowly, painfully,

and still, it’s worth it.

But then there’s the grapefruit.

I thought I knew love.

Six years, thinking it was pomegranate love—slow, sweet, worth it.

Turns out, it was grapefruit.

Bright, promising, fragrant.

But the first bite hits,

and it burns.

Sharp. Bitter. Not what you wanted.

You keep eating anyway,

because you’re in too deep.

Because you want the sweet,

even if it’s small, fleeting, maybe never enough.

Love can hurt that much.

Love can make you want someone so badly

that you swallow the pain,

swallow the bitterness,

and still call it beautiful.

I’ve learned now.

Grapefruit isn’t wrong.

It’s just… dangerous.

It makes you hungry for something more than you can handle.

But I still take a bite.

Because I need to know.

Because I need to taste it.

Even if it burns.

This is my love.

Raw.

Unfiltered.

Messy.

And still mine.