I was a bruised orange,
That round piece of fruit that had been dropped, over and over again.
Dropped so many times, my insides had turned to sour mash.
(It was a distasteful sort of mush.)
I hid my mushiness behind an exterior of bright orange skin.
(I thought I had fooled everyone but myself.)
He swept into my life, in backward fashion,
Giving himself away to erase the disasters of my wounds.
He was eraser crumbs.
His history, one of being casually swept from the page
As others made their revisions.
Had he not been there?
Life would have dug a hole through my crepe paper heart,
Scraping and scratching
With its hard, unforgiving end.
But he was eraser crumbs;
He slid easily across my page.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
I was a bruised orange,
That round piece of fruit that had been dropped, over and over again.
Dropped so many times, my insides had turned to sour mash.
(It was a distasteful sort of mush.)
I hid my mushiness behind an exterior of bright orange skin.
(I thought I had fooled everyone but myself.)
He swept into my life, in backward fashion,
Giving himself away to erase the disasters of my wounds.
He was eraser crumbs.
His history, one of being casually swept from the page
As others made their revisions.
Had he not been there?
Life would have dug a hole through my crepe paper heart,
Scraping and scratching
With its hard, unforgiving end.
But he was eraser crumbs;
He slid easily across my page.
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