Bitter

Oranges were my favorite fruit, A burst of sun each day, after school, Their bright skin yielding to my touch, A ritual, sweet and pure, almost sacred. But then you came, casting your shadow, And the room grew cold, As if you’d stolen the warmth from the walls, Even the television faded to silence. I felt your hands on my skin, Rough, like you owned what was beneath, Fingers pressing down, searching, Peeling me open, eager for something within. But I wasn’t ripe, not ready for the plucking, Not meant to be divided, not meant to be shared, And yet, you tore through the tender flesh, Pulled me apart, each slice spilling. You never asked if I wanted to offer, But took what you wanted— Sweetness that wasn’t yours to taste, Leaving me empty, hollowed, a rind. The orange, my favorite fruit, lost its sweetness, A memory stained, bruised and bitter, And every day since, I’ve left them alone, The taste of them twisted and wrong.