The apple of my eye is red and rotten from years of being propped up and beaten. A core impure and drowning in a sea of enzymatic browning, a flooding of air to remove that certain flare. The seeds have been sewn, tossed, thrown aside to hide the shame. Sadness seems to seek me, might be my own undoing. The apple of my eye is ever changing, it all depends on when my lids are closing.