I have peculiar bark on my long tree legs,
it grows in layers.
When I was eight, I was a fresh baked apple pie.
My mother never told me why, but I know
it was because of the tears.
My tree legs drank them every day,
while mother explored my cold sweats.
She picked them off my forehead with
smiling fingertips. Eager for discovery!
She poked through my warm crust, straight to my soft apples,
spoiling my fruit,
rotting them with her murky breath.
I was an apple pie
until the world never died.
I realized, at that precise moment,
that I was a foul smell;
putrid. I had dried up and crumbled.
There was nothing left for me but
these long, strong tree legs….