Sestina of Autofill

I am an evening of scented season, wondering if you've given me this stairway with the gold curls. Who changed her name to Stacy? Later in my throbbing red heart, you were forest green and lush apples. I have learned to pick my apples, the reddest ones no matter what season. Then you wormed your way into my heart, gnawing away the discretion in me. I wish I had a pretty name like Stacy, and sunlight in my spiral curls. A snake who maneuvers in curls, you savor the tartness of granny apples, dreaming of girls with names like Stacy, who are cherries of the spring season, while courting an old dame like me, careless about breaking my heart. I've wondered about the color of your heart. It has wound its way around me in curls, so tightly you almost suffocate me. Now I am just the core of an apple, tossed to the dirt in a cold season. Maybe I will reincarnate as Stacy! My childhood nemesis is named Stacy. Oh, how she left an ache in my heart, with blushed cheeks of a peach in season, and glossy lips in a perpetual curl. In everyone’s eyes I was the apple, until that Snow White replaced me. The whole world has replaced me, full of young versions of Stacy. My wrinkled skin is like fermented apples. Now I tell people, hey, I have a kind heart. I need no curler to make my lashes curl. I change with the colors of a new season. You've handed an apple to the piteous me. It is love's season, nothing to do with Stacy. The warm cushion of your heart is where I'll curl.