a.k.a. "3AM", a.k.a. "The Orange"
there is an orange sitting on my desk.
there's an orange,
on my desk,
and it's been there for maybe a week now.
it's 3 AM, and i am
looking
at the orange.
i want.
to eat.
the orange.
i want to eat the orange but:
peeling it.
the idea
of peeling the orange,
of feeling my hands get just
sticky enough to itch --
i don't want to peel the orange.
i don't.
want.
to peel the orange.
sometimes,
i smell the orange.
i smell it and think of the taste:
bright and refreshing and sweet.
but then,
i think about peeling the orange.
i think about scrubbing and scrubbing,
scrubbing
and scrubbing
and scrubbing my hands
with so much soap,
and still feeling the
sticky remains of not-quite orange juice,
clinging
to the skin between my fingers.
about itching and itching,
itching
and itching
and itching my hands
because they're so sticky,
and itchy,
and i don't think it's ever going away,
and i can't itch any more or
my hands. will bleed.
and so i'm looking at the orange.
smelling the orange.
i'm waiting until i build up enough resolve,
to eat the orange.
i just hope it isn't rotten yet
YOU ARE READING
While We Wait
Randoman anthology of short stories and poems that i've written instead of working on the larger projects i've started or doing my homework,, [might eventually have some writing practice shorts for other writing that is currently in the planning stages?]
