Oranges

“You smell like oranges,”

Yes sir, real, fresh Flori-da oranges, yes sir, orange soap, orange cream, orange blossom lip gloss.

When I remember that first time,

the first time I shattered a wine glass,

I remember that the sugar crystals went everywhere,

and I could smell lilacs, lilacs and Easter lilies.

But I smelt like oranges.

Little orange blossoms.

Blossoms that have crept behind shadows, felt sun through stained shadows of false idols and fake trees, drooped with fake snow, that asbestos kind that makes you breath heavy.

And then.

These blossoms wanted to become that shadow, I wanted to grow big and strong, I wanted to beat against my chest, and get rid of that baby voice, those cries and moans, I wanted to be a tower, looking over bays and beaches, looking as rich as clear clear glass, I wanted to be an orange tree, growing in new, wetter, sweeter soil. I wanted to be just like a fresh orange.

But now,

I’ve grown, my lungs are swollen with that heavy lilac air, the fear of broken glass, shards under foot,

oh tiny foot.

I’ve grown and I’ve smelled of sweat, powder, and grapefruits.

I can’t look in mirrors when I clean them, and I can’t use a blow dryer. I couldn’t get rid of my cries, like that of a cur, my moans have become soft, and only shared with fresh linens and cracking fires.

Sir, yes, sir, I smell like the rotten oranges you find under the passengers seat, I smell like pressed petals from days gone by; lacking their bite.

I am made of dust, and pebbles, and lunch rooms with no clearly marked exits.

I am cracked porcelain, I am stale water from a water bottle you despaired for in your July fever, I am become burns and coffee rings on plywood stained real nice.

I am a pop can travelled all the way up from Flori-da through the Atlantic, I am rust and I am Diet Pepsi.

Cherry.