Oranges

Orange slices always come with a sense of Deja vu. The species varies, but it’s always between two choices. The kind that comes from hearing the theme tune of an old beloved TV show, the exact pitch, the words coming easily, the too-loud volume children so often use when watching something. The other breed comes from remembering a recent gunshot wound- accompanied with the visions of blood, squelching under fingers, oozing out from under skin. An echoing mythical thing. Oranges are officially the most important fruit. They originate from the dreams of the cosmos. Their scent wafting between planets, pushed further by meteors. Their taste was born on the first day. Citrus was the first word. The burning of their juice was the first pain felt.

Orange slices are messy. They’re hard to discover, hiding behind thick skin. Their innards flow down their predator’s chins, tainting, satisfying. Their remains stay sticky.