I welcomed April with a bottle of Midori splice and a half-bit apple.
Feeling frustrated, bored and drunk, I stole the apple from next door.
Apples are for the greedy foolish.
God forbade us.
There are things in life that cannot ever reach these hands.
The alcohol in my blood believed otherwise.
I was young, agile and strong. I was delusional.
Scraped knees and shaking hands held a trophy of red.
Everything tastes better drunk.
Even a half-rotten apple.
They all said, it wouldn't work out.
My kaleidoscope heart believed otherwise.
We were young and in love.
Nothing mattered but our passionate nights and lazy days.
The possibilities were endless; we were the envied golden apple.
We came out with bruised hearts and dented pride.
I blamed it all on the poisoned fruit.
But forgot that we planted the seeds, ourselves.
We are the faulty ones to begin with.
Everything seems so clear now that I left it all behind.
The basket of seven.