January 20th, 2009

The apple wasn’t poison.

No, the poison came before.
The apple was simply dessert.
Every time I bit down,
some more juice would ooze out,
down over my teeth.
Fill my taste buds until
I couldn’t
see,
hear,
feel anything but the
pure white of the apple.

Out of the corners of my eyes,
I could see my house guests.
They came every so often,
the little men.
Colorful little ones,
they became a sash,
as usual, and I tie it around my waste.
I can hear their laughter as it tightens.
Lack of oxygen to the brain.
Fall,
black out.