You came to third period with apples

on your face red, red apples that shined

their guilty blush. You hid them, deep

in the gaping puddles of your hoodie.

Across the corridor others stare,

try to steal secrets through the corners

of their vision. Do not see the broken

skin, the soft, the rotting, the dent,

in the shape of someone’s knuckles.

Everyone’s lips, tart, sealed. It’s only

when coal-black seeds under your skin

smoke, char the sheen. Burn melt

the soft flesh. Some might notice.

Some might not. Some faces,

too scarlet. Some, too pale. You

pick at the white stickers that label

each apple like scabs. Dread cannot

douse. Welcome, the smolder.