bonum et malum

i’ve started selling the fruits
of my mother’s labor
in hopes of learning to love myself
half as much
as men offer to spill their seed upon my skin.

but they say that
the apple doesn’t fall far from the family tree.

sometimes the apple doesn’t fall at all.

instead, the apple rots;
it dies on the branch before it ever ripens,
hollow flesh penetrated to the core
with worms.

there’s small choice in rotten apples,
as per Shakespeare,
and i, of all apples, know this:
those who want for fruit
will eat their fill.