bruised fruit

by Koa W., 16

I, at the bottom of the basket, am freckled by the empty
compliments spoken by my mother
My eyes are glued to a rusted shopping cart weathered
by a hand that holds deplorability.

Because it is only the company of fruit flies that softens my
rage, my gentle skin is coated in sugar, yet contaminated by
infectious burns and cuts that I had no prior knowledge of.
Possibly I had woken with them grown with them
Whilst I had been swallowed by a parlous state of being.

I watch the passerbys of the produce section lost in their
admiration of the past versions of me that lacked complexity.
I wonder what I’d have been had I swatted the flies away
instead of permitting them to leech off of the artificial-tasting
sweetness that infused my veins.
I am freckled, bruised someday I will be sought
by one who finds use in me—even if it leaves me overripe.

Long Island, New York