I used to hate oranges
Because of the mess.

I hated sticky nectar left behind on my skin.
I hated that I would wipe the excess on the clothing I was in.

I hate the peeling, ripping the orange's shell away.
I think I don't have time for all this, nor the cleanup today.

When you accidentally puncture the fruit,
another distasteful thing.

Yet I sit here today, chewing it's pulp as I type.
Realizing oranges sustain, refusing to take their characteristics as a reason to gripe.
I surrender to the orange, and all its metaphors for life.