orange you going to give up?

(a meaningless prayer-troll that ends in a waltz)

It really upsets me when an orange refuses to be eaten.

There are several ways an orange can do this, all of them futile, and I do not understand why it would do so. I will try to explain my puzzlement below.

1. refusing to be peeled.

A good orange will, after some intelligent scoring through the rind on the part of the attacker, give it up. The signals are there. You didn’t need the jacket! It’s warm inside! my stomach.

2. refusing to be sectioned

I’ve already wrested the rind off you, silly orange. You are done! You were grown to be eaten — you had no identity of your own, no right to will, volition, agency — a vessel for seed, though you be sterile and navel-ly.

so why are you so loathe to part, my orange? why can’t you be like your darling clementine, who shed so delicately, easily, sweetly?

I have ripped out the cap, that insertion at the stem end, and it leaves me a cavity into which to plunge my thumb. The interfacings between sections should melt, thaw, and resolve into a dew. Right? Whatever intermolecular forces holding them together should hit the off switch.

For, well, you know what happens when oranges resist: they bruise, as I have no choice but to plunge, pry, prey: you may release wetness now, wounded, but it is too late: you, orange, could have yielded with grace, spread your petals as will had predicated.

Should you weakly squirt your weak acid into my eye? This only redoubles my ravenousness: juices run down my chin, I continue with renewed gusto, sucking my fingers so they do not macerate.

For these sins you cannot be shriven; no matter how you pray: for each section of the sisterhood that remains, another will soon enter my stomach.



  1. comment if you can see why it is a waltz
  2. has ‘orange’ lost its meaning? gained a meaning


I swear, I have nothing to do with the maker of this figurine, but it is too apt to not include.


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