If I were a food
I suppose I'd be bitter sweet,
an outside of barley sugar,
an inside of rotting meat.
I pretend I am the sun,
playful, bright, and new,
by the nights end I'm done,
my skin a deathly hue.
I'll wither in the orchard
like those jewel bright fruits,
cut the tree, dig it up,
I'm dead to the root.