The Apple On the Tree

The dust under the TV. That she knew belonged there. At least until she'd seen all it could show her. Was hostile. Barking bad dreams through a cloud of reruns. Her body standing over the stove. She saw it. Like a missing rung. On the ladder she was trying to escape down.

Stubborn windows let their ugly eyes in. Refusing the rain as well as they accept the sun. Soft doorknobs. Give her fingers something to mold. As she anticipates empty rooms.

There's nothing to know. Except this surrender. The minor catastrophes of broken skin. That leave their marks on our bones.

The atom on the window sill. Eager for collision. Her skin. Not listening. As I tell it how to feel.

I've been here. And I will be here again. I taste them. Choices. Ripe with confessions I've yet to make.