Bursting at the seams
like a too full jar
of hatred maybe
for me or maybe
for you?

The orange is so sweet,
sweet it aches my teeth.
I don’t want orange from you,
I want red, and maybe black.

It annoys me that I have
succumbed to you
all these years

I should stand up,
but what if there’s
a weight on my lap
in the shape of you?
What do I do then?