Cassandra

I drew pictures of me and you
You let me sit in your chair
Our wheels wreaking havoc on the pavement
You always made the strangest things with dough
That I never understood.
But your apple was bruised
It wouldn’t heal
No matter how many times
You washed or refrigerated it
Your apple must be eaten
Or the bruise will spread
Rotting the core
Until it’s thrown away
That’s what the produce guy said.