he didn’t peel my orange,
I let tears shed down my face,
I’m not supposed to be sad,
after all, it’s just an orange.

a sweet and sour fruit,
the color of a prison jumpsuit,
I think I need a parachute,
to rescue me into absolute.

I don’t notice anything else,
just the fact that he refused,
but I stop to think and realise,
that maybe I need to be defused.

all these problems climbing up,
rushing in from the *****,
when a sweet turns to sour,
and something snaps inside.

Why am I filled with smoke,
Why do I feel this way,
Why am I so dependent,
It’s just an orange anyway.

so I start slowly,
taking the skin off,
piece by piece it falls,
and it reveals something sweet.

suddenly I understand.
To peel someones orange,
means I have to peel mine first.