Rotten Grapes

The rain fell down in waves

But not hard enough it seemed.

My mother always said:

   “I’m as fine as a plump grape.”

But she always bought cherries for me.

My cherry was popped when I was 16

The sky was clear and sunny though

It was a scene of nerves and sweat:

Salt and the strange taste of another’s

Warm saliva in my mouth

The beat of my heart roaring against my chest

He stood ready, blue checkered boxers still on

Concern and lust on his open face

Too rough the feel of his blue sheets underneath me.

Other days she said:

   “I’m as rotten as a grape.”

As if she knew she was rotting from the inside out.

I stole her cigarettes in pairs of twos and threes

Until the whole carton was gone

Until I could do nothing but confront my shame.

But nothing happened.

Some days she left me guessing:

   “Like a grape..”

As I forced the slimy green fruit of a kiwi down my throat

Its soft fuzz bringing a sick feeling on my tongue

Her eyes proud

As she repeated that it’s my favorite fruit.

I threw the fruit away

Knowing she might find it

But nothing happened.

I am slowly rotting from the inside out

But all I can feel is his hot breath

Against my ear as he tells me:

   “Everythings going to be alright”

As I stood watching everything deteriorate

And knowing, nothing was ever going to be the same.

The waves crashed as the rain poured-

Tilting the world sideways.