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I won't leave a real message... No one reads my journal anyway...
Three green apples,
sitting in a silver basin.
With a silver knife,
I wound the arm.
The blood pours out,
And into the bowl.
We'll take this satchel
Of flowers and herbs,
And empty it
Into that pool.

Snow falls;
Kisses the apples
as they are stained
A bright red.
Put a glamour on them.

1. They'll be beautiful.
2. They'll be perfect.
3. They'll be irresistible.

Is that all?

4. They'll be the death of me.

By daybreak,
The apples are red,
And no blood sits in the basin.

In my wicker basket,
I take them.
Cover them with mounds
Of ribbons...
Of jewels...
And precious, pretty things.

Out into the streets, I go.
To find you...
To share my things...
To have you taste them...

"Would you like a trinket?"
I'll ask, hidden as a croaking afterthought.
And the last thing
You'll hear?

"Eat the apple, deary..."

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