If they let me stay
To rot
Like a grass-bound
Apple core,
It is my fault
For missing out on
The crisping leaves.
I may be plucked
From the tree
But I am not fixed
To a chewed and spat-out
Fate.
Maybe I'll slip between
The unsatiated fingers
That stole me from
What I'm accustomed to,
And roll away instead;
Becoming more
Than just an apple core
With broken seeds.