I want to go home

Dusty black tarmac splits the lonely fields of tall grass. Nestled by the hedgerows, hiding from the traffic blasts, is me.

I want to go home

Sometimes the fruit is rotten; sticky, festering messes that deal a smell foul and sour. The syrup stains my skin.

I want to go home

The wasps like my cache, the wasps buzz over the bad, bad apple as another car pulls up. Please not another one.

I want to go home

How do I tell them I’m not for sale? I’m not for sale don’t buy me? My pink-red skin, my rotten seeded freckled face.

I want to go home

I see girls like me on those summer roads, smiling to scare away the rot. The sickly-sweet strawberry heat follows them.