Autumn was biting at my skin like the bitter taste of apples,

seizing my taste buds, so contrary to the appearance of apples.

It was the cold I smelled or the sweetness,

collecting in a quiet crowd outside- this invasion of apples.

And I realize there’s no stopping it- our confrontation-

there’s no end to it once we begin to split the apples.

Picking me apart each tired minute that comes, passes,

tired minutes so grateful to be gone, thankful to miss the sight of you picking me out like the seeds of apples.

You dig both hands into me, try to take the very parts that keep me alive,

in that violent way you cut the core from an apple.

You thought I’d fight or cry or scream for help,

but found I had only the tiny voice of apples.

You turned on me so easy, disregarding me like you discard the sullen stems of apples.

You hide me in the corners of this country,

skipping town and changing names, falling all over yourself like the tragic death of apples.

You just can’t forget me in the night while you are fidgeting and awake,

when the outside noise has fallen away- all but the crack of a bite of an apple.

Author: Brittney Bullock

Boston University graduate with a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy. Primary interests include politics, prose and poetry.

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