I sink my nail into the skin.

My pink thumb delving

into delicate flesh,

pith clinging to the 

whorled prints, scenting

my hands for the day to come.

At this moment,

I can’t help but wish to be 

an orange too.

I crave for someone to 

handle me the same way:

to peel back my layers

with gentle precision

and marvel at my tiny segments. 

For them to close their

eyes in satisfaction

at the way I burst on their tongue.

For them to savor each 

piece of me, the gentleness 

of my internal world on display.

I wish to be written about

like citrus, the eccentricities

and imperfections whittled

into the epitome of someone’s

“simple pleasure.”

I want my scent 

perfuming their fingers,

each of their sighs

punctuated by my

image behind their eyes.

They should yearn 

for me. Their hunger

satiated only when

I let them dig 

their fingers into my skin,

ripping me in half

to dig out my seed –

tearing at my core. 

My pulp under their nails - 

reminders of me.