I’m the wrong color like orange

oranges; I’m not the ripe green

 

color of my accepted companions.

Rough hands peel away my

 

orange blemishes, carefully

keeping my white veins

 

intact. Carefully avoiding a

puncture that would release

 

my sweet juices, carefully

keeping me whole. I’m vulnerable

 

in these harden hands,

held like a newborn until

 

the swift motion of his blade

reveals my core, spilling

 

my blood onto dirty hands.

My insides are rearranged

 

and turned into pulp in dry

mouths while my orange skin

 

lays discarded in the dust

among the green shells of

 

past slaughters. My seeds are all

that remain, scattered on the ground.

 

Seeds from orange and green skins,

thrown together onto the street.

 

Our surviving remains: Colorless

seeds lying in the same dirty dust.