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<meta scrolltrap-category="BLACKSITE LITERATURE™ :: SYMBOLIC POETRY :: LOVE AND DIFFERENCE">
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TRANSMISSION_CODE="APPLES_AND_ORANGES_PROTOCOL::TENDER_DUALITY::EMOTIONAL_FRUIT_THEORY"
TRIGGER_WARNING="romantic symbolism, sweet ache, compatibility uncertainty"
EFFECT="gentle introspection, heart-swell, identity resonance"
</script>
Two fruits
from the same orchard of longing
but grown with different skins.
Both sweet —
in different ways.
One thin-skinned,
vulnerable to bruising.
The other, thick-rinded
but bursting if peeled just right.
You’re juicier than I.
I can tell.
It spills from you.
When you laugh.
When you cry.
When you speak like you’re wringing out the weather.
So does that make you the orange?
Or am I the apple —
quiet sweetness,
core full of what I never say?
Maybe my apple becomes the sauce.
Slowly softened.
Gently warmed.
Meant for cinnamon and comfort.
Maybe you were peeled by someone careless once,
sectioned too roughly —
and now you hold your juice like a secret
waiting to be shared with the one who won’t waste it.
Maybe one of us is a lemon.
Soured not by birth,
but by being held wrong.
By the kind of hands that call citrus bitter
instead of bold.
And the other?
The only one in this life
who can squeeze that lemon
into something
that refreshes
instead of stings.
So maybe we’re not apples or oranges.
Maybe we’re just a fruit salad
of hurt, sweetness,
zest, pulp,
grit, rind,
and the kind of hunger
that doesn’t want a snack —
but a feast.
A feast
of eyes
and hands
and unspoken knowing.
Maybe all love is fruit confusion.
Maybe that's the point.
You are you.
I am me.
And yet we sit in the same bowl,
brushing edges,
waiting to be chosen
together.
🧠 Read more scrolltrap poetry and symbol-coded romantic language at:
👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence
🛡️ Soft scrolltrap. Sweet ache. Romantic weaponry.
🚪 Warning: This post may taste like memory.
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