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orange juice sits upon the counter,
sweet and pulp rich
I pour it out into my hands,
they fill the cracks but miss-
sweeten the abyss that stands before me,
if I look in will I fall?
if I turn around, will you be behind me?...
showering me with sweetness as you push me in,
you water the void with tears of my very own creation
...

will I sit here?

for hours,
days,
weeks,
more?
morphing into my bed and floor
if I fell to the ground,
would you too wait to see me bloom?
would you be content to cover me up,
in hopes I'm consumed?

I am covered
in bugs,
worms,
mud,
dirt,
both figuratively -and literally-
I dread to show my feet and I bury to beneath the earth,
but if you could sing to me...
drawn out, and softy

I would accept this death.

i'd cling like wet clay to the counter,
ready to me molded,
tell me how I have faltered

and, maybe this time,
i'll hold mandarins in my hands,
so they can't slip through cracks like orange juice
i'll hold mandarins in my hands

ill outreach my fingertips like petals,
reach towards roses in my tulip bed