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A Rotted Fruit
A Rotted Fruit
She passed on with words
On her lips. And her eyes closed.
And her back bones loose. She died
On a Swedish bed, tucked in for another life.
At the bed’s foot, lay leaflets of Revolutionary
Fervor, all read for glory until she couldn’t
And wouldn’t read them anymore. Ten
Forty-eight p.m. and her eyelids were closed.
When she lifted them, heavy and worn,
She was in Limbo, and it was a cloudy day
She had thought of this day, and always as a
Revolution, in which she would fight with
Her eyes open. Giving in was painless. And she’s
Not saying she’s ashamed.
She hadn’t cousins to lead her astray
Or to light a match before her blind eyes.
Others, whom she watched with envy,
Had their messy, amusing lives. She kept
Her likings bottled for they were better
Fermented in her mind. A thing is always better
Liked alone than shared with fools.
The toil of four school years, what use has it been?
She had bought a bright orange, let it sit and shrivel.
And now no one will eat the rot; it’s all a waste.
Although, watching the mold eat the fruit was a thrill.
Not starting off at a four-year, she’ll swim
Upstream towards the community. It’s
Instinctual, she’d like to believe. They’ll tell her
How clever, how safe, how appropriate. She’ll
Grin when they do, for her insides disquiet and
Tremble every night in the panic of unknowing.