An orange falls to the ground, like my life when it falls to pieces.
It is no longer wanted: an outcast, dirty, vibrantly cast aside.
It lies upon the dusty ground, wondering why it was stupid enough to fall, at how it will rot there.
Luckily, there is always someone who will toss it in a bag with the rest of the oranges despite its dirty exterior,
Still able to see the vibrancy within.
Amongst friends as bright an orange, though slightly less filthy, who see through first impressions and appearances.
Thank goodness for these lovely fruit who accept me, it would say if it had a mouth or a brain, and that lovely man who picked me up.
People seem to believe that other people don’t need someone to pick them up, or people to understand them, or people to comfort them and appreciate them. That is foolish: we are all oranges.