I think reading The Bell Jar went some way towards the formation of this. It was written while listening to a short play called...the name escapes me...on a radio show presented my Ian MacMillan. It was based on the idea of a charity that sent a truck full of sanitary products for women who didn't have enough money in places like Zimbabwe.

I'm really quite unsure of this and i don't think i've finished, so any suggestions would be welcome...

There was an unnatural gleam on those apples.
In their simple, unassuming bowl, in that
unassuming room behind the plain, quiet door.

'Room B'

It seemed silly that such a gleam,
such a hard, unthoughtful gleam, should
reside within a place reknown for 'understanding'.

The woman behind the apples was kind.
Smiling, neat and small,
She talked to me, asked me questions as
I watched the fruit stare at me.

I didn't reply; they made me feel uncomfortable,
like I had no right to be there. I was
wasting their time.

The woman spoke of so many things,
I often wondered if she was talking to herself, or some
one I could not see, or - maybe - the apples.
I said nothing.

One day, she offered me one. I took it,
the shiniest, hardest, ripest apple.

And as I bit through skin, juice rushed in
to my mouth, the flesh buried my teeth gum deep.
And as the flavour hit my tongue, so did the words.

She listened to my bubble burst in a stream of sound,
release of consciousness.

After that I never went back,
to the quiet, unassuming room.

But I will always remember the flavour
that found my tongue.