When I was little I couldn't eat an apple without my fingers and mouth getting sticky. I would also get this overwhelming sense of nausea shortly after finishing the sticky apple. Although time has made me vastly more aware, nature will not relent and my fingers still remain sticky.
Insomnia tells me of my childhood; it explains what I didn't understand and reminds me of what I've forgotten. It colors in the grey details.
It makes me sad. And angry. And anxious. I wonder what I've missed and who I could have been if I only I was then who I am now. This memory of apples taunts my heart.
The anxiety kisses my lips and holds me close. I worry for every goddamn man in my life. They're all going to be killed. If not literally, figuratively. Their core will change and their heart will beat to a new rhythm.
But I'm sticky.
My fingers, my mouth.
And the taste of nausea is teasing me.
I hate apples.
Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie
