An apple

 What are you?

An apple, like the rest.

Red, round, real.

A body, a mind, a life.

What do they see?

A glitch, a ghost symptom,

a thing too soft at the edges.

Not broken, not whole—just wrong.

What do they say?

You are just as sweet.

You have grown the same.

You should be grateful.

What do they mean?

You are not real enough to count.

You are not sick enough to stop.

You are not well enough to keep up.

What do they do?

Turn their hands to the clear-cut cases,

the easy answers, the fixed and finished.

Leave me hanging, waiting.

What if they took a bite?

They would taste the fight—

the weight of walking,

the effort of existing,

the grief of what was.

And what do you do?

Hang on.

Hold my weight.

Ripen anyway.