Have you ever wanted to be an orange?

I know that I wanted you to be an orange this morning,

when your sour juice burnt my tongue

and your perfumed rind stung the cuts on my fingers.

But you are so different than an orange.

Pallored skin, pink pulp—bitter, pink pulp.

Then again, I have seen yellow oranges, soured in their unripeness.

Does that make you an orange or them a grapefruit? 

And, if I painted you orange and sprinkled sugar on top,

concealed what you are with who you are,

would you still be a grapefruit then?

Because if you look like an orange,

and you taste like an orange,

were you ever really a grapefruit to begin with?