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
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