Untitled

It feels like turning an orange slice outward

Wrenching it into the wrong position

flexing it away from protection

There is where you access the deep roots of its sweetness

where you can consume every last fiber of the blissful, juicy radiance it offers

Yet there is a brutality to it

Force is required

but what hurts the most is the betrayal

The inversion of that spherical skin against its will

There is resistance

there is a tiny rain of its essence lost in the process.

As you wend toward that succulent prize you can feel the breaking that occurs

how unnatural a process it is

how all the shape that it once knew now becomes flaccid.

The strength once contained there now operates only through habit and has lost all meaning.

As your eager mouth mines it’s treasure from the inner white of it’s skin

once all the value you had perceived has been collected

you release it to fall and it remembers the shape it once held.

It reverts back to that sphere

though misshapen

though bereft of its once solid glory

it remembers, it returns.