Dimples on the skin,
infiltrating the gaps beneath my nails my fingertips growing numb after constant caressing.
Little orange tufts break and emerge i like to disgust myself by repeating a phrase that i coined as a child: “it has too much rib, but not enough skin.”
the ribs delicately encase the pieces,
but are unbearably cruel to the bumps on my tongue.
I would never swallow the chunks.
The color, slightly bloodier than my suntanned thighs.
It feels meant to be enjoyed in an outdoor bed.
The broken peel cracks like a misshapen lightning strike.
The slices parted in bubbles, a circus of blended artificial chatter.
The symphony of dancing trees in the open backyard as they rustle tenderly in the wind.
Chucking the peels over the side of the porch just to collect the remains a few hours later.
I had hoped it would have dug a hole and clambered into the grave, excitedly waiting for it’s time to be re-loved.
Cupping the cold skins,
i pretend the fairy-winged bees have filled their little bellies with the curved edges of orange.
