The world is a ripe tangerine

Gently resting in her palms

(cracked like leather, worn like stone.)

The small, precious fruit

(the color of fire, burning, blazing.)

Its fate lies in her hands

She could crush it

(never be good enough)

(get out, get out, now is your chance.)

Puncture its flesh

(kill it, kill it, don’t think.)

Feel the thick, warm, pulpy juice

Trickle down her forearms

(look at this mess, what have you done.)

Its sickly sweet smell

Surrounding. Suffocating

smiling.

(too late now)

All this is fantasy

This isn’t her call

While she holds the fruit

The man holds the power

(you are nothing, he is everything.)

Silent statue

Don’t be seen

(shhh, not a sound.)

She bears its weight

As life rushes past her

(children laughing, children leaving.)

This tangerine will outlast her.

By Emily Hung