my hands are stained yellow from mango, the kind that gets all over everything and you don't even care because it tastes like sun, like the whole damn island squeezed into a single bite, and it’s more than just sweet, it’s got this… resonance, like a chord struck deep inside, vibrating all the way down to my toes… i can feel it even now, hours later, like the light is still in there, the way it felt to pull it from the tree, still warm, like stealing a little piece of summer, and the guilt… it always comes, doesn’t it, like i don’t deserve this much easy joy, like there has to be a cost, but what if there isn't, what if this is just… the thing itself, no fine print, just… here, now, mango-handed and breathing? I always brace myself after moments of pure happiness, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the universe to snatch it back and say, "Just kidding." Maybe that's why I sabotage so many good things; I'd rather be the one in control of the disappointment.