It was like
The inside of my chest
At best
Was the brown flesh
Of an over-ripe apple.
Smelling sickly sweet
And tasting so bitter
That I screwed up my face
In distaste as I took a bite.
Half empty inside,
I wanted to hide.
But there was no escape
From my life.
So I imagined opening up
And scooping it out.
But no matter how many times
I tried
I still died
Every morning
And every night.

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