#battery - Hello Poetry

i am staring at the fruit bowl where the oranges are sitting like small, unlit lanterns. i know they are supposed to be gold. i know, theoretically, that if i broke the skin, the air would turn into a grove and the juice would run down my wrists like a messy, brilliant confession. but today, they are just weights. they are just spheres of a color i can see but cannot translate. it’s like i’ve lost the frequency for anything that isn't grey. i am so tired that my heart has gone into power-saver mode. it’s a safety protocol i didn't ask for— a rigid, internal six-minute limit that expired hours ago, leaving me in the digital silence of a round that won't end and a rebuttal i’m too heavy to write. i keep reaching for the "too much," the frantic, quiet beauty of the disaster, but the toggle is jammed. i am a blueberry muffin left on the counter after the cafe closes, wondering if the sugar-crust matters if there’s no one left to feel the warmth. it’s a terrifying kind of quiet. no gavel crack, no timer’s beep, just the static of a mind that’s archived the syllables but forgotten the meaning of the words. i’m sitting in the back of the room with a legal pad full of blank pages, waiting for the "out of time" to finally mean i can sleep. i want to want to peel the orange. i want to be the person who trips over their own grace and finds it funny. but the juice is locked behind the rind, and i’ve run out of ink, and my hands are too tired to hold anything that’s still hot. i'm just waiting for the light to come back so i can find the floor again.

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Apr 21

Apr 21, 2026 at 7:38 PM UTC

sd_nerd27

locked behind the rind

i am staring at the fruit bowl where the oranges are sitting like small, unlit lanterns. i know they are supposed to be gold. i know, theoretically, that if i broke the skin, the air would turn into a grove and the juice would run down my wrists like a messy, brilliant confession. but today, they are just weights. they are just spheres of a color i can see but cannot translate. it’s like i’ve lost the frequency for anything that isn't grey. i am so tired that my heart has gone into power-saver mode. it’s a safety protocol i didn't ask for— a rigid, internal six-minute limit that expired hours ago, leaving me in the digital silence of a round that won't end and a rebuttal i’m too heavy to write. i keep reaching for the "too much," the frantic, quiet beauty of the disaster, but the toggle is jammed. i am a blueberry muffin left on the counter after the cafe closes, wondering if the sugar-crust matters if there’s no one left to feel the warmth. it’s a terrifying kind of quiet. no gavel crack, no timer’s beep, just the static of a mind that’s archived the syllables but forgotten the meaning of the words. i’m sitting in the back of the room with a legal pad full of blank pages, waiting for the "out of time" to finally mean i can sleep. i want to want to peel the orange. i want to be the person who trips over their own grace and finds it funny. but the juice is locked behind the rind, and i’ve run out of ink, and my hands are too tired to hold anything that’s still hot. i'm just waiting for the light to come back so i can find the floor again.