Tomatoes don’t grow on vines.

Feeling like a tomato at the market. Maybe my color attracts someones eye. They step closer. I could use tomatoes, they think to themselves. And they pick me up. They prod me. They think about what they could do with me. They put me down. They pick another tomato up. No that one wasn’t as good. But the next was, and I am left with a new finger print and no home. How many will I collect until I lose my luster? I wash my self up. If beauty is skin deep, why do bruises turn people away?