Bad Fruit

by Ella King

the wildness in one area of her life must be atoned by order in another.

I immerse myself in war to wage it against myself.

If Nelson can get shot in the shoulder, I can do this. I try to forget that the wound was fatal.

If choosing is a muscle, mine has atrophied from disuse and although I keep practicing, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do it. You have to picture yourself when you choose an outfit or a piece of jewelry, imagine yourself wearing this or that, but when I think of myself, I see only my made-up face and pink jumpers, me in Mama’s image, and then I don’t want to think anymore.

there is a mention of my “unconventional appearance”).

The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

I get up, bring my dandelion to the sunlight, and do the small things to make my hole a home.

I plunge my left elbow straight down into the water, my hand hovering like a white sail, and think when Theseus sailed home from killing the minotaur, he forgot to change his sail from black to white and his father thought he was dead and killed himself. My sails are white, Mama, live. My sails are black, Mama, die.