Scar tissue splits when you have scurvy.

Such specific malnutrition.

To be without citrus,

The brightest of the fruits,

Flavor like laughter and the sharpness of the sun

On a morning in June.

The taste of joy that endures the winter,

The echo of the forgotten sun.

Oranges are in season in the winter,

A fact that juxtaposes their warm color palette,

They serve as a reminder.

For the old forgotten sun.

 

Citrus always was my favorite,

The oranges, lemons, limes,

The grapefruits and pomelos,

And tiny clementines.

I’d eat lemons rind and all,

Though the acid was so strong.

Though it hurt to eat it all.

I keep citric acid concentrate,

For drinks I make each day,

I add it to my tea, this ghost

Of oranges, lemons, and limes.

Of grape fruits, of pomelos,

And tiny clementines.

 

Citrus is a funny thing.

Perfectly sectioned to be shared,

A lovers fruit,

Seasonal to the winter, an old Christmas gift.

I peel an orange and I remember a poem,

One I read to a lover long ago,

I eat the whole orange alone.

Can’t let the old wounds open.

You carved your way inside me,

And left only the bitter rind.

Empty grapefruit, sugar licked away.

 

Everything taste bitter now,

The oranges, lemons, limes,

The grapefruits and pomelos,

Even tiny clementines.

Yet I still stuff my mouth with citrus,

I can’t let these wounds open up.

The taste is rotten on my tongue,

The acid burns my throat,

Yet I still devour them.

The oranges, lemons, and limes.

The grape fruits, pomelos,

And tiny clementines.

 

I don’t know if I can love again.

Part of me thinks I got too comfortable,

Loved by you.

I lost my edge.  I gained too much.

I can’t lose any of it again.  I have new scars

That would open if I starved myself again.

I wonder if you knew that.

That I starved myself for you.

You certainly noticed when I stopped.

When I thought you loved me for me,

Not because I was alone,

Not because of what I did for you,

Not because I gave you all of it.

 

I gave you all my citrus love,

My oranges, lemons, and limes,

My grapefruits and pomelos,

My tiny clementines.

I peeled each carefully,

Removing white tuft and sectioning them,

Until my hands burned with acid,

From the oranges, lemons,limes,

Grapefruits, pomelos,

Tiny clementines.

 

Citrus is a funny thing.

It reminds me of you so much.

I eat it to prevent old wounds from opening,

Yet each time I pierce the thick skin,

Of an orange, lemon, or lime,

A grapefruit, a pomelo, or a clementine;

Each time I tear away the cover

I find my beating heart,

The one I gave to you and returned.

I seel it away now.

In old rinds of oranges,

In lemon wheels on drinks,

In limes with fish and fries,

In thick grapefruit skin,

In the impervious pomelo rind,

And even still in the tiniest clementines.

I will never peel citrus again, 

I’ll simply bite into it whole,

If I can’t see the heart you stole,

Then it can still go home.