I used to hoard apples until they were rotten.
Green ones, not red. They would stay in the closet
until I could no longer eat them, eat anything.
I couldn’t stomach what happened.
The cupboard full of spiders,
shards of glass in my throat.
Once, I stumbled upon a dead bird on the sidewalk,
ants had found a home in the marrow.
I walked away, wondering if I was the bird.
It was never about weight. Or maybe it was.
See, the smaller you are, the less
likely you are to be touched.
Once, I had a panic attack in the grocery store.
First it was the apples, then it was the children,
not knowing if the hands they held were safe.
Photo by Kira auf der Heide on Unsplash
