I’m ready for sugar,
ready for that slow‑gold melt
I’ve been picturing all morning.
But the fruit snaps back,
Tongue-numbing tannin climbing my tongue,
Rude as a slammed door.
I chew anyway,
chomp after chomp,
trying to ride it out,
pretending this is the flavor
I meant to enjoy.
Funny how a soft orange thing
can flip the whole rhythm,
turn sweet into a lesson,
turn me into someone
who swallows bitter surprises whole.
wcd
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