They say if you eat enough,
You'll never get sick,
a fruit-basket remedy for my pains
I lie on my back, staring up at my 'cure'
this green, apple whose skin's
red taint's like smeared blood
a citrus sacrifice
To save me
But my core is sick,
pips rotting and vanishing into this malady
Or this orange orb,
starkly staring at me, and my dull grey-
paint, shirt stained with apple gore,
eyes opaquely dark yet empty.
Each segment segmented,
In perfect form, full, gaudy
I too segmented, yet sucked
And un-juiced, un-lifed-
Like an old orange, now dry and brown
I’m a brown,
I bleed sand.
And these words, telegrams from my soul,
that poison even the messenger and those who care to listen
leaving unsent pieces of me
along my lonely path of
this time that streams through my fingers,
sticky and drips from my hands
as I squeeze the pulp of what’s meant to save me
yet soils me still.