Apples By Kayla E. Moore

Image by Paloma Santiago @colombaph

By Kayla E. Moore

crisp flesh like the

air of the season they’re

ripe in.

apparently

the shape of my

ass when I bend over

in skinny jeans

crude men like so much.

they like to say so,

vocalize sexual intent

more than genuine

compliment.

avoid looking at hairs

canvasing my ankles,

idealize me their plaything –

dream me their dreamgirl.

housewife, clad

in gingham, eyelet aprons.

dream me their waitress,

avoid looking into molten

amber eyes – shot with blood,

imperfect.

they like to say so,

that I’d look nicer

with more makeup on my

eyelids – I oblige momentarily.

squeeze shape into

garments of their affection,

rip them off once I remember

what woman is.

crisp flesh and wit,

borne from the season

they’re born in.

apparently

some people rot like apples.

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By Kayla E. Moore

Cover Image by Paloma @colombaph