Apples

Freedom.

Your poisonous breathe no longer lingers

on the waiting air. Insignificant words,

wonderful nothings, don't worm their way

into my dreams.

My stiffened arms relax, falling

by my side. My body hair regrows and

my razor sits still: I rejoice in

this masculinity, its low voice calls out to something deep

inside me. Primal.

I offered you an apple

and you stole two, stealing away my good

intentions. I've searched for those two

rotting cores far and wide. I searched

amongst the roots of a Willow, waded through

the filthy, bloody water surrounding my waste

It wasn't until I cut open your

bulimic stomach that I found those two, dead,

rotting fruits. Brown and dry. So I threw them away,

because they are not my only fruit and now my

ripe hands covet my own heart, kissing its white flesh.