It all started when I was seven after making a decision to eat eight apples with the core
It made me weak and my stomach lurch, leading ultimately to vomit all over the floor
That urge showed up again not long after when I decided to runaway alone
I got picked up and brought to a place that one could call a dead zone
If I had any sense it was lost tens years past
My life is simple, until it’s not and then it’s a nice contrast
If I spill beet juice on the sheets it turns into mess that wounds his heart
When he bleeds on the sheets it doesn't resemble the juice, and a mess is now art
It all started with a knife and an apple to slice, a waiting voice to persuade
My stomach churned while the hand twitched causing me to miss, but he met my blade
Such a sweet fruit
Such a sweet life
Will it stain my knife?