by prasanna   May 6, 2022

After being tended to by parents, who had more hope for you
than love—who called out for a more benevolent sun to take
the shape of their desires, and needs, you learn that a storm is
always brewing in the distance. Good farmers know not to tend to the crops
but the livestock, and equipment because
crops are replaceable, and you are nothing more than flesh
meant to sustain and provide. You broke through soil, your bones rooted
from a hole in the ground, a grave—yours, most certainly.

Had you been tended
to with a little more care, a little more tenderness, a little more love,
you would not have noticed how close love is to hatred,
separated by a quiet line of indifference—I love you, so I’ll give you room to breathe,
I hate you, so I will say nothing.

Maybe in a different time, your flesh would have been sweet like sugar-apple,
and not the tart crab-apple you pluck before a chance it sweetens a little
because you realize it won’t ever ripen in this lifetime.

Did you know that most apple trees are grafted? A seed from a fuji apple won’t
grow more fuji apples. So, they take branches from a more successful,
more obedient apple tree and attach it to whatever rootstock
they have on hand. In short, most apple trees have a traceable lineage
that can be traced to one good apple—you were an apple that was
knocked off the branch, started to rot when you were picked
up and brought inside, only because you were a
firstling. You continue to rot, and they let you.


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