The smell of fresh oranges
Hit my nose
I look down
You pick and pull at the peel

The underside of your fingernails
Have residue
As you poked and stabbed
At the pure fruit

But don’t worry
You’ll be able to wash your hands
From the sweet juice
Yet the smell will always linger, somewhere

You see me starring from above
My face of utter disgust
As blood drips down my thighs
And I lay paralyzed.