Queen of Poisoned Apples

I have consumed too many poisons

and not enough apples — 

unraveled, life so unbalanced

it would make Libra cry.

Tell me, do others stare at the ceiling

and wonder when it will shatter,

wonder if there are ceilings after we die?

Prick my fingertips with needles,

and I will bleed water

because I need iron,

but it makes me sick like

most things, so I remain snow white

as the girl abandoned in her tower,

stranger to sunshine and promises, golden

hair raveled and knotted from the lotuses

that made Libra grieve.

There are not enough apples,

or slumbers, or princes to fix this,

recover sober innocence,

rewind time.

Tell me, is the blackened wick

of a spent candlestick

really enough to start over?

Remember, I know nothing of moderation.

If my vices were laid out and plated

for a feast,

I would sit easily like a queen,

eating hopes and hearts away.

Stay with me

for just an evening,

and you’ll see that there’s nothing

about this tragedy, the self-destructive

tendencies to praise.

Some days,

I wonder if malaise will always be

like a brother or if apathy will take

his place, reminding me

that there really are worse things than pain.

Tell me, if I unraveled

the mystery of sedated passion,

turned back Aion’s wheel,

discovered zeal again,

would Libra invite me to her table,

finally balance out her scales?

I have consumed too many poisons,

and there aren’t enough apples.

If I wait here, stare at the ceiling,

maybe it will shatter,

and eventually, an orchard will grow

where my untethered

fantasies roam.