Fucking Apples

their resilience is mocking me.

The fucking apples, although I think my neighbor calls them Asian Pears. Let’s just keep it generic.

The fruit that shall not be named has been bobbing around in the relentless salty wind. Swinging back and forth and on occasion in sloppy circles. Mocking me. Yes, mocking me. 

The strength of their stems infuriates me. “GIVE IT UP. What’s wrong with you? LET GO. Call it quits”, I silently scream watching them dance out the bedroom window. 

“We’re not ready yet crazy lady. We don’t give into the fear of a stormy day,” the fruit that shall not be named sweetly sings back. 

Turns it out I project my emotions onto fruit and dogs. 

I want their stems to snap so I can snap. 

I want them to fall to the ground in fear so I can fall to the ground in fear. 

The fruit that shall not be named is mocking me because I know it’s right.

Neither of us gives our power entirely over just because of a stormy day or two. 

We both have more growing to do and will be sweeter for it. 

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