Soft and supple petals,  bleed out from my ribs, circumnavigating the cruel cuticle.  Few bear witness to my beauty.  To understand, takes  time,  patience,  and purpose, So as not to get poked.  Those whose interest lies solely in my fruit,  cannot handle the rough edges,   that embody,  my entire spirit.  These accessories draw in those not meant to last.  The impatient, unwilling to reveal my sweet, refreshing interior.  The ineligible irked by my spines.