Time is an apple that rots in my hand
while I waste it all imagining.
Listen,
I imagine a sweeter June, one without the aching of memory
I will smear my hair with shades of lipstick
and not squint my eyes when the march flies swarm
I imagine a home with sunflower painted shutters
children raised on guitar and freckles
I imagine looking in the mirror
and the weight of tomorrow does not stick
to the hollows of my cheeks
Smile, and the whole wicked world will wait
I taste it on my tongue
love, raw and peppery and out of breath
and wonder if this body is mine at all.
Please, give me a little space
to not be in this body for a while
You may find me instead in the gum trees
or under the ripe tomatoes
Please, just a little space
to not be wanted for a while—
I can’t journal anymore
I cannot help myself from stuffing the pages
with rose petals and lace ribbons
I whisper that I am sorry, I am sorry that this is me
I want to be better,
I want to let go of the breath
that I have been holding
since I was five
and left alone on the school steps.
Will you meet me under the apple trees?
The afternoon sun
is sweet and
still and
makes no apologies
Here, the rot softens
and turns to seed.
