READ THE NOTES AND CREDITS FIRST. I used to love oranges. Nicely peeled and cut, so pure and sweet. It’s innocence contained behind the peel as it is opened to show its core to only the trustworthy. Everyone has an orange in them. But mine was teared open. Unwillingly as the juice got over his fingers, the peels scattered across my body as I trembled, tears flowing down my face. He ate the slices bit by bit just to torture me, making my own body weak as I tried to fight back. But how could I? His voice makes my very core ache like a stubborn wound that refuses to heal. Every unsuspecting touch makes me flinch now, the need to cover up my body stronger than ever. The sticky juice lingers on my body like marker that cannot be washed off no matter how many times I attempt to wash it off; I scrub until my skin is red. I can’t get my mind to behave as the pain takes over to mask the stickiness I felt. Everytime my orange was ripped open once more it makes the stickiness spread until mold starts to spread. I feel dirty, naked, like a turtle with no shell. Unprotected. Kids will be kids but why would an older kid, someone who’s supposed to have more maturity, destroy me? As my orange couldn’t take it anymore, the mold and juice all over my body, he too got bored of me. Discarded me like a piece of trash and moved on as if nothing happened. I laid there, my expression empty as the fungi consumed me, drowning me in my own inky abyss of sorrow and regret. Why didn’t I see it sooner. Now I guard my already ruined orange, the tint of green still on my body as I prevent anyone from getting closer to me. Until it heals once more.
WARNING. This poem involves themes of S/A. If you are uncomfy with it, I advise you click off for your own mental health. Thank you.
