I open my eyes. The bananas are still there: curved bodies and rubbery skins speckled with dark bruises, decay spreading from the inside. I tug at the smallest one but it doesn’t budge. With a quick, jerky movement of my fist I rip the banana away from the bunch, exposing a crooked line of flesh just below the tip. The distinct smell hits me immediately.

I don’t like bananas. In fact, I’m physically repulsed by them. I hate all their curves and edges. I don’t like how they turn to mush when I bite into them, and I don’t like how they bruise so easily. When I see a banana my face contorts and my head screams. I can’t help it.

I peel the banana skin, the foul odour penetrating my senses.

My throat seems to close up when I am around bananas. Whenever I try one, convinced by friends and family that time must have changed me, my stomach squeezes and everything in my body rejects the sensation. It is as if my organs are independently attempting to purge this foul disease that has infiltrated by defences, infected my soul.

I bite down on the coarse yellow tip and I spit it out.

I want to like bananas. I hear they’re supposed to be tasty and I know they’re rich in potassium. I am also told that they taste great baked in bread. I’ve experimented with wrapping them in bacon to trick my body. I have closed my eyes and pinched my nose but the act of biting down into the sickly flesh of a banana shakes my core and breaks my spirit.

I lick the sparsely speckled ring in the centre and cringe involuntarily.

Eating the same thing over and over again expecting something different—that’s bananas.