I am an orange peel me.
My surface is rotted and covered with layers and layers of filth.
If you peel me you’ll see that my soul is pure.
It is as bright as one thousand suns and a thousand moons.
The brightness of the interior will enter your soul, enter to depths of your being, it will go within your skin.
But no one has seen the interior, although many have been intrigued by it.
No one would bother to pick such a damaged rotted fruit; no one would want to use it in a fruit salad.
Only the prettiest fruits are picked for a fruit salad, but these fruits although pretty on the surface, their interior is covered in scum.
The orange sits at the bottom of the fruit bowl, ostracized by the other fruits, an outcast amongst it’s own kind.
The moon reflects an image of hope and transcends to its surface, it revels in the darkness of the night.
The darkness is the only thing that helps to cleanse it surface, but even that is not enough. Nothing is enough to wash away the oranges rotten surface.
The orange will remain just as it the beginning of time, discarded by society.
