Apples are rosy, pure and true,
An apple will always be sweeter than you.
It’s skin so perfect and neat,
Yes and apples are always truly complete.
Take a perfect apple and juice it dry,
Watch how it never cries.
Pick it up and complain about its shape
And it rips up itself to fit your plate.
Bite into an apple and taste,
Your tastebuds will praise you for this grace.
But for a second you taste the blood.
Yet it is a taste that you love.
For the apple does not feel,
Its skin is made to peel.
Your hands leave bruises which it tries desperately to fade For if someone sees it they will surely throw it away Why have a bruised apple when you could have a
whole one? Why nurture a wound on something that is not you? Why take care of something that cannot feel?
After all the apple is made of steel
Gossip away about its skin,
And it will ripen and preen
Drink its juice and say you prefer orange,
And it will add sugar to itself until it is poisoned. Make slices, jam ,juice, pie, tarts and sauce
Or make it all, you’re the boss!
All the things an apple can do,
All of them will be done for you!
But as time goes on you notice the change,
Your perfect apple cries out in vain.
For when a fruit is not ripped apart by your teeth, When a fruit is not crushed in grief.
When it’s not being burned in your stomach,
Or baked in a pie to plummet,
When it is left alone on that counter,
Without the painful banter,
The fruit slowly starts to rot,
From the inside out it becomes truly lost
And as it becomes sore,
I realize I am an apple rotten to my core

The image in the mirror stares back busted
Her gaze is lost and her eyes are crusted
The scratched up skin and tired eyes
Yet, they are eyes that always lie
The scratches morph into cuts and the cuts back to scratches But who can truly tell with skin so ashy?
The pimples littered on the face
Or are they bruises of decay?
The food stored up in those cheeks
Yet the bones show so clearly you can see the links The deeply sunken eyes
In which you could take a dive
Or maybe it is the weight on the body
Yet it is so skinny others feel sorry
As the image slowly begins to distort
Others whisper in consort

The grade on the paper stares back busted
It starts with a 6 or 7 or maybe I’ve lost it
I close my eyes and I see the 8 again
Will it stay I wonder when
It plays hopscotch up and down
But to an ivy it will never get round
The past certificates stuffed in drawers
The new ones with bs hung up on the walls
The academic achiever replaced with a burnt out bitch Everyone could see the switch
The closed books that have never been opened The french words that have never been spoken The late nights spent sleeping
The late nights spent weeping
As the image slowly begins to distort
Others whisper in consort

The busted images grow worse
It seems I am truly cursed
I feel bad for the boy I like
I pray that he hurts me out of spite
Day after day the cracks display
When will I be free I wonder the day
But liberation does truly come
I walk back to the place I’m from
I take those familiar pills
I take that knife that always kill
But for the first time my wrist does not cry out The vomiting is no longer for clout And as the blood drips down my face I have finally finished my race
And the whispers turn to cries
And for the first time I truly lie
I stare in the mirror all bloodied like a ghost And maybe you will say I look my worst
But I am finally pretty