Mangos don’t have to think about love.
Mangos don’t have a god that hates them.
Mangos don’t cry when they touch a girl for the first time.
Mangos are cut into and sensually devoured.
Sweetness slips through rosy lips and elicits delighted moans of content.
Mangos are loved for their ripeness and brightness.
Juice runs down fingers and wrists without a care in the world.
Mangos are perfect with their messy cruelty.
Mangos don’t give a fuck.