Apples In Hell

There is a ghost 

Who slips her spindly fingers 

Between mine


And whispers dusty secrets

Against my lips when no one’s looking


I found her under a rock 

In my backyard when I was three


And she’s hung out, haunting me,

Ever since


When boys get too close,

She swoops down from the ceiling

Flashing her green teeth and

Feathered ears until they scurry up and



And I used to appreciate it,

But now, sometimes, she

Scares me 

When she mentions the apples in 



And wanting me to taste them 

With her—


I used to think she just meant someday,

But yesterday I thought I heard her voice in my sleep



Marie E. Kopp (she/her) is a writer living on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with her demon-child cat, Oliver. Her work centers on her experience of bipolar 1 disorder, the deconstruction of her traditionalist Catholic faith and values, and her newfound exploration of the erotic as a queer and disabled female in our harsh contemporary American landscape. Her poetry has been featured in The Ethel Zine, volumes 5 and 9. You can find Marie on Twitter at @shoelessbanshee

Photo by Corina Rainer on Unsplash

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