Cactus Fruit

woman covering her face with red apple

Her first death is a tickle
she’s ripened with a rotten cord
clinging to the mother tree
but no one’s mouth is ready
the second death is the first frost of the season
and she has yet to feel teeth dig into her skin
the last act begins and her friends
are all gone, tasted and disposed of
while she sits in regret because she’s been told
it’s better being used than not being wanted.

 

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