Rot

Part of me likes to see fruit rot—
to keep it until it’s brown like dirt, clumped
like mud. It is the same part of me
that ends a relationship long after it’s over.
It’s easier to trash the thing I wanted—
green in the store, forgotten in the fridge—
when it’s patterned with worm holes,
oozing sour juice, no longer the ripe,
sweet apple I imagined.