Sinking my mouth and my happiness into this grapefruit reminds me of when I didn’t like them so much, with their jarring, acquired taste.

So misunderstood was I, since I now let his underrated juices drip down my 22 year-old cheeks.

I wonder how many walk past him for his more accessible brother, and other flavors so well-known.

I wonder what kind of role he plays in the thoughts of his colleagues.

A strange citrus with complex flavors they care not to taste.

I bet they find him arrogant, and too serious to break their inner circle.

They probably think his foreign blood would taint their personalities.

They don’t talk to him, I bet.

Schizophrenic gestures and paint-flavored greetings sum the daily conversations.

Maybe they assume that the least of their efforts might strike them fancy; make them seem nice and that I would think of them as wonderful and beautiful people.

Me and these flavors would never understand why you stand across the room and analyze me.

Me and these flavors would never understand why you wouldn’t want to indulge yourself in what you don’t understand, since you’re a scholar and all.

I would never get your issue.

I keep taking bites of this grapefruit; curious to know if your Christianity means more than your gender.

I imagine the scenario of you getting to know these flavors, and experiencing me with bliss and approval on your sleeve.

I imagine having a friend, that I don’t have to worry about scaring with all that I bring to the table, and all I choose to keep off of it.

I imagine you abandoning your opinions and assumptions and apprehensions about me, letting them seep down the importance of your uniform, and getting to know the God that you swear lives in all of us citrus fruit.