She jolts awake and wants
to scream: someone has buried
a mangosteen inside her mouth.
 
She gags and
spits, tasting blood
at the back of her throat.
The mangosteen falls out onto the sheets.
 
         A ripe, purple-coloured mangosteen.
 
She cups it
in between her palms, and
with a swift, inward collapse,
 
she breaks the shell apart – the juice
of the white pulp is sticky,
sweet – and the mangosteen crumples
 
into her hands, clasped shut
as if in prayer.
 
Suddenly,
she flings the mangosteen at the wall
and watches
 
as the blood trails in its wake —
 
Hours pass,
before she crawls out of bed,
picks up the pieces, and stuffs it all
back into her mouth:
 
                  seed, pulp, rind, and all.