An Apology Letter to my Spoiled Produce

An apology letter to my spoiled produce

I would reinvent your color if I could

I would turn my arms into steel rods instead of the jelly they are,

To lift me out of bed on even the worse days

The other side of my bed is filled with you

Because the kitchen might as well be in a different house

Your purchase fills me with certainty that the worst has past

That I, in fact, am the Green Goddess I was meant to be

Tomorrow, I’ll run a 4K and learn a language and make a fruit salad

But, bananas blacken and oranges rot

And I’m still in bed

My therapist once told me I would get there eventually

And to breathe like I was blowing bubbles

Of course, she meant that about something else

But she never told me what to do when those bubbles move out of reach

When it gets hard to find the right air

The walls like to bring up the fact that I’m far from everything

That I’m failing

That I’m not where I need to be

That my dreams are slipping further and further away

The bed does not care about expiration dates as it swallows me up

When produce decomposes, it becomes compost

It does not fear the future, because it will still be there relentlessly

Even when it is stationary, and unproductive

It is patient with itself when the blinds have been shut for far too long

Like it too, I will grow again