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​Watermelon Sketch

​Sep. 2021

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I am saying about Watermelon. Have you ever noticed? The hard shell, the red flesh, the juicy, and the seeds. It is my father and my mother, the ground and the sky. I hold a watermelon in my arms gently, just like holding a baby. It becomes my abdomen, my head, my heart, my dream, and my home.

I curled up against my body. My soft chest, abdomen, thighs make the effort to wrap the cold watermelon shell tightly before the distance between us becomes a real vacuum.  The green stripe colors my skin. I feel anxious and guilty. I want to put my clothes on and paint the watermelon blue.


I I get the strength from my feet. I stomp. I grow up from the white bones covered under my skin. I stretch my skin to grow to a height of one meter and seven. I am sitting on it, lying on it, kneeling on it. I am angry. The useless anger can make me aware of nothing unless the hard shell of the space is in my arm.  I start to think about my blood, my eyelash, my breathe, and my uterus. I am shooting a horror porn movie for people who stand above me.


 I love myself for the ways I destroy this watermelon. I want to do nothing but show all of you the seeds. The thousands of slippery seeds flowed out of my body with menstrual blood. I fear yet ecstasy. I am a woman. I come from the flesh and keep seeding the ground ahead of the destiny of flesh. I am happy because it is me to destroy it and restore it truly.

I never thought it might be failing. When I squeeze the watermelon with my body, I can even hear the juice surging under the hard shell.  It is not fair to emphasize how hard is its shell. what I want to do is just broking it, and eat the pulp into the belly. I, myself am much stronger than I have imagined. I question myself and give myself answer unsuccessfully. But I keep going by giving up. I feel no fear because the world has already in my watermelon and my body.

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