Denial

Decaying,

dripping corpse flesh suckled by a fool, feasting,

drawing bloody juices from peeling skin, pit smushed,

drawn out by time.

Disintegrating, the fruit sloshed in her mouth, pressed

down by a frail tongue,

duplicate to the fruit in her grasp.

Dirty box: a home where it rested and rotted,

dutifully waiting under the woman’s bed.

Did it grow mushrooms and vile words as revenge?

Did she prick, poke, and pollute it on purpose?

Despite her denial, the fruit turned overripe,

damp skin made friends with the ants and mold, cry, crying out.

Deserted until one day the woman

deserved a treat, and

discovered the dirt-covered mush.

Determined, undeterred,

deathly, the juices wept as her teeth sunk

deep.

Did she imagine the perfect fruit of her youth that she had

dragged under her bed to preserve?

Drumming against her esophagus, its innards

dissolved.

Did the pit kiss her heels when it

dropped, silent, used?

Desperate to dig itself deep, grasping

dirt in its bursting roots, but

doll's shoes cracked its shell,

draining its hope for ever leaving.