i am an apple rotting from the core, my shiny skin disguising my bruised insides. the branch at the top of my head is being twisted off; a, b, c, d. pick a name. smog thought of death comes to mind. take a bite of me; feel my sweet happiness ooze with every clench of the jaw. but get to the spoiled bit and toss me away. leave me to rot and dry. i'm here for a good time, not a long time. and i don't deserve the pity and praise for the artistry at 27. so i shall leave the party at my 28th hour.