Apples on a pure porcelain plate
Taste sweeter and crisper
Coming from your knife
Without fail.

Sister got stitches from
Pushing the blade far too hard
Into the apple core.
Slice, slice 
So it slivers the apple and her hand.
All she wanted
Was that taste, while
She watches the apple-skin-colored blood
Drip, drip down.
Sister never liked
Green apples anyway.

I saw slices on my desk
Without fail,
Every night.
I see your smile
Without fail,
Almost every night.
I saw neither,
After our screams.
They stick in the air
And stare into my red core.
Yet, the silence afterward
is what stings
The most.

But the apples returned
On their pure porcelain plate
On my desk,
After the morning arose
Accompanied by an
Apology.