Honeydew Suits Me…

soft, observant, and quietly sure of your worth without needing to prove it. 🍈

I stopped trying to be a watermelon—
all spectacle and split rind,
paraded to the table already broken,
expected to be sweet on demand,
red as confession,
seeded with everything I never meant to say.

Watermelons are for crowds.
For hands reaching in at once.
For being chosen because you’re obvious,
because your insides are loud,
because no one has to work to know you.

But honeydew—
honeydew waits.

It doesn’t shout its ripeness.
You have to lift it,
feel the weight,
tap and listen.
You have to want it.

Honeydew is subtle sweetness,
the kind that shows up late
and surprises you for staying.
It doesn’t bleed when cut.
It doesn’t make a mess of loving it.

I want to be the kind of person
you don’t notice right away—
the calm in the bowl,
the pale green quiet,
the flavor you didn’t expect to miss
until it’s gone.

Let me be honeydew.
Chosen by someone patient.
Appreciated by someone paying attention.
Not cracked open for everyone to see,
but held,
and tasted slowly,
and loved for being enough
without ever having to spill myself open.