An orange is round, if you hold it right.
It’s color bright, or reflecting light?
Take a closer look, the surface isn’t smooth.
It’s covered with dents and bumps,
wrinkles and grooves.

Fading from orange, to yellowish green,
the skin, tough and lean.
Squeeze, gently then firmly.
It springs back into place
when your hand is removed.

Pressing hard, jamming a nail inside.
Push; pull, to loosen the skin.
Ah! A breakthrough.
One piece off, small it is,
a start as well.

The acute smell, overwhelming,
its pungency, unexpected.
Ease a finger under the skin,
pull some, and pull off some more.
A peek at what’s concealed within.

A larger piece amputated.
The smell becomes stronger.
The whitish skin beneath, squishy,
like a cushion or a sponge.
Toss it aside.

Finger sliding under again,
slowly pulling up.
You hear it ripping,
as it comes apart.
Oh, what’s this?

Liquid dripping down your hand.
It bleeds; it hurts,
having the layers peeled away.
Do you recieve some satisfaction,
seeing inside?

The sponge like shield clings to it,
fighting to protect the heart.
Tiny veins form unidentifiable patterns,
throbbing, pulsing protests as you intrude.
There’s that sound, that smell of pointless resistance.

Elixir on your hands,
your nostrils flare,
your eyes water,
the strong perfumes' attacking you.
You’re half way there!

The layers, the peelings,
the scraps on the floor,
needed no more.
It’s smaller without it’s armor.
Vulnerable, defenseless as you remove the core.

Force a finger inside to jerk it apart.
The wedges tear as you pull,
bleeding, or crying?
The wet rivers flowing
down your arm could be tears.

You’d cry too, I think,
if you were forced to endure constant humiliation,
if you were weak and powerless,
struggling as you’re examined by prying eyes,
prodded by unfeeling fingers.

Now the inside is exposed to you.
It modestly attempts to cover itself
with sheer blankets of helplessness,
but nothing is hidden from you.

Breaking easily,
on your sharp, smooth teeth.
You let it linger on your tongue,
prolonging your victory before swallowing,
trapping it forever inside you.

Piece by piece,
you savor the sweet nectar you’ve stolen
as the discarded armor,
the only remains, rot at your feet.
You devour it as you’ve devoured me.

The end, bittersweet.