Bad Apple Poem by Kevin Patrick II

We're the bruised fruit in the produce section
Hiding in sight from your X-ray detection
Our bodies grow so disquiet
Under your scrutinizing gaze
As your police fingers trace the surfaces
Of our anxious skins, looking for defects
small impairments of beauty
little wounds you scowl at
When you realize we aren't worthy for your homes
And choose another one for your perfect bones


We're the ones rotten, for being imperfect
Damaged from birth, and damned by your verdict
We lie awake, dreading each day
Knowing that we'll always be last
As your eyes mine us for every little weakness
The tiny hints of flaws in your judging jaws
We grow putrid and bitter
To life's humiliations
Condemned on the shelf where were never sold
And all our dreams perish and hope turns to mold


So instead of whining about the poor statics
Welcome to the life of being autistic
Something your mind will never try to grapple
Born the wrong seed, born a bad apple