I’ve heard rumours. People talk, you know, about what happens when they come, but I don’t believe it. It isn’t true. I know my sweet girl wouldn’t take me there. Her hands are delicate, the way they reach for me, rearrange my soil, and moisten my leaves. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t. They’re just rumours.
Tomato is pathetic. She dangles; weak, dependent. She has so little to show for herself (besides her red colour and her loud mouth). Tomato is the one with the rumours. She claims to have seen the blades and hot pans when she lived on The Inside. She lived in a flowering pot. Yes, a FLOWERING pot. Flowers are sad, little creatures who believe they have more worth because of their beauty. Arrogant, mean, and dramatic.
I, however, am resilient. My leaves are strong and rich in colour, and my stems, oh my stems, they’re beautiful. They are my source, pulling nutrients from my soil up to my leaves. They spread like veins into the green of my leaves, in contrasting red, orange, or yellow. Yes, my colours vary. I am like art. I am the valuable one. I am full of vitamin A and C, potassium, magnesium, and even some protein.
My sweet girl wouldn’t take me there, not to the The Inside.