sombre

poesy five

i think about the apple again. 
the way it felt in my hand, smooth, cool, like something pure. 
something perfect. 
i held it there for so long, staring, watching the way the light caught on the skin, so red it almost bled into the air around it. 
it looked like a heart. 
or maybe it was my heart i was seeing, reflected back at me. 
i don’t know. 
i can’t remember the difference anymore.

whatever i’ve done, i’ve done it for love. 
that’s what i tell myself. 
over and over, like a chant, like a prayer. 
as if saying it enough times will make it true, will make it feel right. 
but the apple—it was so easy to bite into. 
i didn’t even think. 
i didn’t stop to wonder if it was wrong, if i should. 
i just wanted. 
wanted to taste it, to feel the sweetness fill my mouth, to make it mine. 
is that love? 
i don’t know. 
i don’t think i ever did.

the first bite was soft. 
too soft, maybe. 
it gave too easily, crumbling between my teeth, leaving something bitter on my tongue. 
it wasn’t supposed to taste like that. 
not after all the waiting, all the wanting. 
but i kept going. 
i had to. 
whatever i’ve done, i’ve done it for love. 
even if the love tasted like ash, even if the sweetness never came.

i think about the core sometimes. 
what was left after all the bites, all the chewing. 
just seeds and skin, a mess of something that used to be whole. 
i didn’t want to look at it. 
i threw it away, but it stayed with me, lodged somewhere deep, behind my ribs, under my skin. 
like i had eaten it, too, swallowed the rot, and now it’s part of me. 
i can’t spit it out. 
i can’t undo it.

sometimes i wonder if i’ll ever feel full again. 
if the taste will ever leave. 
if i’ll ever stop telling myself that it was for love, that it was worth it. 
but i don’t think it matters. 
the apple’s gone now. 
there’s nothing left to hold, nothing to bite into. 
just the hollow place where it used to be. 

whatever i’ve done, i’ve done it for love. 
but love isn’t what i thought it was. 
it never is.