I sit, a trembling fruit,

Upon the kitchen counter,

Alone and scared.

For I know what is to come,

The knife that will soon slice,

Into my soft and yielding flesh.

Oh, how I fear the end,

The moment when I am consumed,

And cease to be.

Yet even as I tremble,

And try to hide away,

I cannot help but wonder,

What it will be like,

To become a part of someone,

And to be loved and enjoyed,

In my final moments.

So I steel myself,

And wait for the end,

With a mixture of fear and anticipation,

Hoping that I will be savored,

And not simply devoured.