anatomy of a pomegranate

Vivian Dong

Content warning: abusive relationships

Some days, all I can do is stare out the window, watching the people pass by. I break apart a pomegranate while I sit, digging my nails into the hard, unforgiving rind, until the pressure peels apart my nails from the skin underneath. The juice spills over my lap, dying my white pillows and cushions, stinging my fingertips. My hands are dripping in red, leaving bloody marks wherever they go. Your hand still strikes me. Your words still sting. You’re not here anymore, but somehow, you’ll always be in the next room. I remember everything about you, what you did, who you were. I remember the angle of your wrist and the color of the sting; the twist of your lips and the wine drink; The shade of my lipstick, sharp and red, smeared across your knuckles. I left it behind when I fled, I don’t wear lipstick anymore.

I pluck out the pomegranate seeds one by one, the tips of my fingers growing slick with juice. The fleshy layer outside the seed is called the aril; you told me that. I watch it catch the light of the sun in its clear pink skin, reflecting a rosy flush in my palm. We used to eat pomegranates together, in spring, sitting on the fire escape, drinking beer. You loved everything about them, breaking them apart, digging for the seed, and staining your hands. You said the reward was in the pain, and how those jewels were that much sweeter when you had plucked them so bitterly from their shell. I sat there with you, pretending I understood what you were saying, trying to figure out the greater metaphor that lay beneath. I never did, you’ve always been older than me, always been wiser too.

I chewed pomegranate seeds and popped open the aril and bursted the juice out, mirroring you. The flesh was soft and sweet, but when I bit down on the seed hidden inside, it was hard and bitter. My tongue curled around the acrid taste that coated my teeth and throat, and I squirmed, trying to untwist the frown on my lips. But then you break open another and I’m reaching for more. It’s the same every time; it never gets better. But something about the way the flesh glittered and glistened that tempted me to keep eating. Something about the way you laughed and smiled kept me staying. Sometimes when I’m alone at night I still wish I had. It’s wrong, I know it is. But I loved you, is it wrong to miss someone you love?

I lay curled on my crimson stained pillows, burning in the sun that splays into my windows. I lie there and picture that I’m with you, my body softly nestled into yours, molding until we fit into one. I imagine that we’re sitting on the fire escape, warmth dancing on my fingers as I watch you, fiddling with your grandfather’s old army knife, running your calloused fingers across the wrong edge of the blade, drawing a red line on your pale skin. I scold, why would you do that? You smile, the reward is in the pain. You use the knife to cut a hole in the top of the pomegranate, crimson spilling in my lap like blood, staining my white dress.

You broke the fruit with my hands and dug through the bloody rind, peeling back the broken membranes, and shaking out a few seeds to give to me. The red juice ran all down your arms and wrists until your fingers were stuck together and your lips, arms, skin are stained. I joke that you’ve stepped out of a crime scene. You laugh and say that you’re my partner in crime. I dropped a few pomegranate seeds into your outstretched palms like precious jewels falling from a collapsed mine. My hands were streaked like yours. I took the fallen few from my lap and popped them into my mouth. They were sweet enough to forget the bitterness. I keep on reaching for more.