My skin
Like that of a fallen apple
in the farmers market on a warm September day.

Birds weave themselves through the blossoming trees,
Performing their songs for the people below,
Selecting homemade soaps and handing freshly made gingerbread men to their children.

Walking about the market
Going from one shop to the next in a timely rhythm.
They sort through the red radishes and purple plums,
Placing a dozen or so into their recycled bags.

When they get to the apple stands they repeat this procedure
of only selecting the roundest fruit,
with the tight, smooth, unblemished skin-
that makes for the perfect crunch.
These apples they take after close inspection.

The others are rejected to the bottom of the wooden box.
Each time they are tossed aside they acquire more bruises and aches,
adding up against their required beauty standards.

This is where I lie;
Amongst the dismissed outcasts.
Bruised by society’s harsh hand of judgment.

From below I can see other fruit being lifted to smiles and devoured in laughs,
A fate I will never meet.

Born to so much potential but crushed under life’s pressure.
In some miracles pressure can bring beauty, can bring diamonds to life.
But it can also shape into rotten fruit from perfectly good bark.

My skin,
Like that of a fallen apple in the farmers market
on a warm September day.