Peter's Pumpkin Eater

I’m his little secret.
Tender, ripe fruit
in an overgrown squash.
Bruised, pulpy flesh
under a bright, hard shell.
My face is a Halloween
mask of compliance,
all smiling teeth, round eyes
and glowing complexion.
But I am swallowing seeds.
They grow in my belly
on long, viney ropes.
They stretch their limbs
and seek out sunshine.
He doesn’t know
how I sit in defiance
and devour my own flesh.