she felt rotten.

like a half bitten apple left on the counter on a hot, summer evening.
slowly, as days past, it decomposes, fruit flies swarming over the sticky yellowing surface.

the sheer complexity and red surface of the apple didn't see its own individuality anymore.
all it was left was the imprints and marks of the mold.
she never felt fresh anymore

who could blame her?

after all,

she was a half eaten apple.