Like a rotten apple, my body is compared.
On the outside, so bright, so resiliant, so perfect.
The facade I wrap around like a cloak made of sunlight.
Yet on the other side of sunlight is always the darkness
The rotten mass of the 3 week old apple.
Twisting, pulsating raw open wounds.
These that I keep so close, so near, so true.
I twist them around myself, tearing my soul
Into one thosand pieces, none of them whole.