Too peachy, Too keen.

a peach-kissed dream,
with blotted kisses on love letters.
         born in eunoia – draped in lace, comforted by mama’s arms.
                 sun-drunk in daisy dukes, 
                          blessing the world with crackly, sweet hymns.

twirled like a lamb in spring —
        bobo curls and honeyed breath.
                 rounded, 
                          flourishing in mushy emotions.

         no one had told me peaches rot in heat.

         2. rotten/lost.

sugar can call the wasps. 

peach–slick lips, a too-easy smile,
        the dare was being too close to you.
                 leather tethered to thighs, frozen in passenger –
                          unaware of what it meant to be pried.

gloss melted beneath the touch, 
        the peach (me) rotting inside as the pit (heart) bursts;
                 you touched it — bit it too hard. 

hymns now sung through broken teeth, 
         crimson mutton smeared the fogged windows as you
                 take, take, take.

        peach-scented.
        between breath and buzzing,
        the gloss slipped—
        sank into the upholstery.
        never found.
        but the rot stayed.

         3. clean hands, dirty mouth.

bitter.

        juices aren’t sweet anymore.
        just dresses zipped to the throat, 
        and sunbleached daisy dukes. 

        returned, or something like me.
        to smile without teeth, 
        to speak without saying.
        peace —
        slipped on in daylight, 
        tied at the waist like the lace
        worn with my bobos.

        no one knew about the gloss.
        no one noticed how i was diced. 

        with clean hands
        and a mouth still red —
        not from the lost, 
        but from all the things never swallowed.

        yearning for mama’s arms,
        as if softness could be stitched back in.
        as if sin could be rinsed off 
        with a little sugar
        and warm peach milk.

        maybe,
        that’s enough.
        for now.

Abstract

Everyone has heard the phrase “peachy keen” once in their life. But what happens once the wonderful phrase becomes tainted? Too peachy, Too keen uses the idiom as a trap, and in the poem, her softness is used against her. The opening reflects on girlhood, painting a vivid imagery while using the peach as a symbol for the narrator. She has maternal protection, unquestioned safety, and the softest thing anyone could imagine. Like all the young and innocent, she’s vulnerable to heat and harm. The second section, rotten/lost, descends into the moment of trauma. Boundaries are breached, and the speaker’s body, treated as a peach, is forcibly pried, bitten, and consumed. The girlhood is gone because of what is taken, and the language starts to become bleak: “crimson mutton fogged the windows as you take, take, take.” The final section: clean hands, dirty mouth, is the aftermath after the assault. The speaker isn’t as peachy as she seemed earlier in the poem. She returns after, she smiles and walks the same, but deep down she’s carrying the shame and the rot of the memory in silence. The speaker yearns for the person she used to be.