Donny was Right


One bad apple
won’t spoil the whole bunch, girl.

From the garden
I picked from the tempting tree.

The one with a wormhole
piercing the skin
won’t ruin the other
spheres of my life.

Peeling back the layers
of glossy red and yellow
reveals the complex fruit of my life.

The wormhole just a tiny
inconvenient tunnel to the core.

At the core,
the worm
is no longer there;
allowing me the freedom to feast
on the succulent and delicious
fruit of my life.

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
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