when you're small / you're not very big at all

Tonight 

I am made of

apple cores,

overripe peaches,

worms,

in fruit, in mud,

things that are empty,

things that are brown

and kind of gross,

things nobody wants to touch,

things I don't like,

shrunken and wriggling

in dull yellow light,

rotting fruit

and stale water,

songs nobody remembers,

beaches nobody goes to.

It's all a little sad.

And I'm full of it,

the rotting fruit,

and I know—

I know—

it does no one any good

to say these things,

but I have to;

I don't know 

what else to say.

(when you're small, you're not very big at all.)

(Art: Branch of Lemons, 1884, by Claude Monet)

—

I think I use the fruit motif in my writing a lot. Not sure why. This particular piece of writing, though, is probably the rather unsurprising product of listening to the MGMT song and Peach Pit in the middle of the night while feeling exceptionally shitty. It's okay, though, I do like Monet. This is a pretty painting. And, well, I really don't know what else to say.