Rotten Fruit

I don’t feel like I can let someone in,

The way I used to.

I shudder at the idea, of a man touching my skin.

Holding his hands in mine,

Then promising me little treasures over time.

I’ve been promised a lot in this life;

I’ve learned that promise is a synonym for lie.

Rotting fruit sit at my feet,

Flies surrounding;

I don’t know much about my family tree.

So its up to me to plant a new seed,

And stand where they stood.

If only I could.

What if I have nothing to toil?

How much can a tree give until it dries up it’s soil?

Maybe I did break that day, in June.

Sitting across from you, what was it you said?

“You just won’t break.”

One of the promises you’d clearly made.

If only he’d known I’d broken each and every one of those days,

Then what would he have said?

Falling so far back I’d fallen forward,

Without even knowing.

Did I get carried away and promise my seed to someone,

Who lost them along the way?

Or am I carying more than I did before?

Certainly.

Lying in the soil, I know what I was meant for.

I am the seed, I am who I need;

So I bury my body beneath all that is rotten.

Slowly the soil is restored;

And I am no more.