Rotten Apple

By Sayesha Atolia

What am I? Why am I?

The rotten apple that blackens to it's very core withering away as the sweetness of it is suckle by the very same 

Who strive to survive yet consume us

What am I? Why am I?

The rotten apple tucked in the basket that blackens to it's very core 

Withering away-while for what it remains is suckle and snatched by the very same striving to live yet by consuming death

Do I let the Wounds seep in me till I'm cut and hollow or celebrate the freedom.

If this is all of me to be to be caught in the trap, to dream to be caught within the lie of living and ultimately surrender

Why does it all feel true? 

Why am I promised another life when even this one betrays by burying me while I'm breathing in it

What am I? Why am I?

A rotten apple, tucked in the basket,

blackening to its very core,

withering away 

while what remains of me is suckled and snatched,

by the very same who strive to live,

yet live by consuming death.

Do I let the wounds seep into me

until I am cut and hollow?

Or do I celebrate the freedom

of being emptied?

If this is all of me 

to be caught in the trap,

to dream, to be suffocated 

within the lie of living

and ultimately surrender 

then why does it all feel true?

Why am I promised another life

when even this one betrays me,

burying me while I am still breathing in it trying to still break through.

By Sayesha Atolia