Peel Back

A reflection on identity and Deception

I detach a baby tangerine from the mother, shove it into my mouth.

It’s sour. I squeeze my face, fist my tongue, my body resonates.

I remember what it feels like to be human.

I puncture my legs and watch blood gush out—still, not human enough.

I write something, share it, and stare wide-eyed at my phone,

waiting for a message, a glistening screen.

I lie to myself: I’m some kind of robot,

that this doesn’t matter. But part of me knows it’s deception.

When I say, "I’m not jealous,"

it’s just paint to cover my concrete mind.

I mustn't be caught in an unguarded state.

So when you tell me you are, I reassure you,

make you feel you shouldn’t be.

You have me, I say.

But how much of you do I have

when others have already pulled your hands away?

I crack open an apple from the bowl—it’s sweet.

I say I let go easily,

but here I am, thinking of everything that was once mine,

or could have been:

A guitar. A violin. A Barbie house.

You.

Yes. You.

I lie to myself:

I’m some kind of hard-to-peel orange,

squeezing its citrus zest into people’s eyes.

Lies. Lies.

I wonder if this is manipulation,

though the manipulation is glaring back at me,

in the form of a message.

I wait, start doubting myself, my instincts.

Maybe I’m not kind enough.

Maybe I’m not human enough.