I’m argued over more than I’m eaten, a fruit by truth, a vegetable by habit.

I cradle warmth in my gentle curve, a dancer in a porcelain sea, stirring tales from broth to brew, yet silent as I serve.

Red and small I burn if you fan me you see me grow before your eyes. I can be brushed away after the flames glow. I have no flame, but I still carry the burn. What am I?

Unfortunate strands of hair growing on the wrong side of the head, but seldom cut with scissors unlike those on the other side.

I grows smaller the more I’m given away. I disappear when too many are near. I’m valued most when no one notices me. Once broken, trust fades with me. I protect you best when I stay unseen.