Eve and the Apple of Blame
Have you ever created something and wondered if the world was ready to hear it?
I have.
Sometimes I write a poem and let it sit for weeks or months because I question whether people will understand where I’m coming from.
The truth is, they won’t always understand.
And I’m slowly learning to share it anyway.
Eve and the Apple of Blame is a poem about the burdens we carry, the guilt we inherit, and the stories we tell ourselves about who is responsible for the pain of the world.
This is for every woman who has ever apologized for storms she did not create.
For every daughter carrying expectations she never asked for.
For every person who has spent years holding blame that was never theirs to begin with.
Perhaps not every apple belongs to Eve.
🍎
— Blynnwrites
Writer of quiet truths and emotional depths
Poem
Eve and the Apple of Blame
They told me Eve
brought sorrow into the world.
One bite.
One choice.
One woman.
And somehow
the weight of creation’s grief
rested in her hands.
I want to understand her.
Not for the apple—
but for the blame.
How quickly we gather it.
A failed love.
A broken promise.
A body that changed.
A heart that wandered
where it should not have gone.
An ache
we cannot explain.
A curiosity
that shaped her name.
I have spent years
collecting apples
that were never mine.
Holding them against my chest
like evidence.
Proof
that I was difficult.
Too quiet.
Too wounded.
Too much.
Yet never enough.
Eventually,
I began to wonder—
if Eve stood beneath that tree
carrying the same questions.
How long did she walk
believing she had ruined everything?
How many nights
did she stare toward heaven
wondering if she could ever return home?
Perhaps the cruelest punishment
was not exile.
Perhaps it was convincing her
that every sorrow thereafter
belonged to her.
The failed harvest.
The broken home.
The grieving mother.
The wandering hearts.
Carrying the weight
of sins we did not commit.
How much of the world
did she carry
simply because she was told to?
And perhaps
I have lived the same way.
Gathering blame
like fallen fruit.
Carrying burdens
stitched into our daughters’ names.
Apologizing for storms
we did not create.
Teaching ourselves
to be smaller,
quieter,
easier to forgive.
Until our hands
could carry no more.
Until I looked down
and realized
not every apple
belongs to Eve.
