The Fruit Basket

It was my favourite apple.

I could see her shadow 
through the thinnest slices — 
a shade behind 
the sucrose prisms 
held against the sun.

Then the slices grew thicker… 
Too tart for her taste.

My hunger, like 
her shadow, 

If fruit is love, 
then he has plucked me


torn me from root and branch.

My carpels wait 
with poisoned seeds.

I hate, I hate

my dullness, 
scratch my waxed likeness.

Don’t put me on display. 
Don’t touch me.

When I saw my friend, 
she had bruises yet unseen.

Her face was bandaged, 
and her expression 
was a pith, still opaque.

The corridors smelled 
of orange oil cleansers

as I brought her 
her favourite fruit.

She once said 
it tasted of manna…

I thought it had the fragrance 
of a forgotten whim.

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