can you not talk about me as if i am some piece of meat
as if i am some bad apple that you got stuck with but had to throw out

can you not sit in my house, within earshot and talk about things so flippantly
as if there is some middle school half-crush that meant nothing and you tossed out with the morning garbage
a piece of chaff that happened to get caught in the wind and was blown away

as if you didnt even notice that it was gone

or could you just not be in my house. ever.

and how about not following me into every endeavor and every passion i have. how about letting me have something that is uniquely mine. do i get to have any territory that is all my own? where is my land? where is my claim in this world outside of you? get away. let me go. get up, get gone. so moved on, but you wont let me leave. you follow me and want me to stay.




in order to reach for the best apple that is promised to be hiding at the top of the tree, not only do you have to stop reaching for the easiest ones, the closest ones and pretending that they will be good, enjoyable and satisfying, but you also need to realize you still have that last apple still in your hand. you climbed the tree, you found a good apple, you tried it, and it was incredible. but then you found there was a worm in the center. it was a good apple, but not the best. you have to climb the tree again, but you cant climb the tree, you cant pick another apple, the best apple on the tree that has been waiting for you, until you drop the half-eaten rotten on in your hand. throw it out. break it. burn it. whatever it takes.


how 'bout dem apples?

any and all comments or responses are welcome at dabele@wm.edu