published by A Thin Slice of Anxiety
You always ate the mandarin whole.
Stringy veins, rind and all, savouring each bite.
I liked to tear them apart.
Stick my fingers into them, split right open
to their fleshy bodies until I reach the purest part,
their purest form.
You took me as I was, detached outer layer,
the tough exterior.
I had to get to the tender innards, the vulnerable core.
I couldn’t care less for the exterior,
the casing you envelope yourself in.
Hungry to have the sticky syrup
running down my lips and fingers.
Splattering spots on my gluttonous palms.
You’d tell me that you loved them, and
I would say that I do too.
But I only loved them long enough to stop the hunger.
The perfect fit in my hand until it wasn’t.
I scrap the residual segments
as you continue to consume and relish in what you have,
and I reach for the next.