Fruit

Born small and sweet,
turned bad apple
at maturity
after being fed

daily rage,
a gas that left me slimy
upon evaporation;
shame,
a ferilizer too strong for any soil;
guilt, 
that infected water.

I might have been a good fruit
in a different climate.
I might have been
nutritious.  Now,
I’m a flavoring, a bitter
bit to puzzle on: did that whisper
of ugly
add or detract from the otherwise
good meal?

Don’t think I deserved this,
but it’s not for me to say.
Perhaps I did.  
Perhaps I was born in the right orchard.
Perhaps I was meant to sicken another.

All I know is all I’ve ever known:
how I grew, how I turned,
how I might have otherwise grown.