The Orange
The Orange,
was young and frivolous,
a stationary ray protruding from the dark, leafy surroundings of a hidden trail.
Each and every passing traveler would see its delicacy, its vibrant color
and would peel its skin back
Further
and
Further,
a little at a time
to comprehend its entirety, its enclosed universe.
On Day One,
it felt as though a hangnail on a human,
loosely resting against its
original placement;
a minuscule millisecond of pain if rubbed against even a little.
On Day Two,
a paper cut.
A kind of soft throbbing near the injury site,
with a quick spark of pain every so often to alert the Orange of the open wound.
On Day Three,
a skin-lifting scrape like falling off a bike onto asphalt.
It felt more like a chiseling,
an etching away at something important.
A transformation of the topography of its skin
to include bone-deep dips, a mountainous terrain.
This is when the dripping began.
On Day Four,
A slice from a knife.
Similar to the feel of the paper cut, but blindingly hot and sharp,
A feeling of division, of becoming two separate entities at once.
On Day Five,
A javelin piercing the skin,
as though someone pressed, with all their might, a thumb into your wound
and scraped further and further inside with their nail, peeling and peeling away
from within their burrowed state.
This is when the screaming began.
On Day Six,
Blistering, Mind-stalling static.
A buzzing of a far-off TV, a total disassociation.
On Day Seven
Until Day Fourteen,
where the Orange resided above its fallen peel. Its pulp and juice dripped down from its perch,
intermingling with the
muddled footsteps of the travelers passing by.
In its abused state, the Orange rested in its seat.
Every so often a breeze would whisper amongst the leaves above and the
Orange would rock back and forth with them as though dancing to their song,
eyes closed
rotting
and bare.
