Citrus Skin

I am the sour one.

The aftertaste no one talks about.

The skipped line in the group chat—

left on read,

read and left.

I orbit them all

like a second sun,

bright enough to make them laugh,

warm enough to keep the cold away—

but never close enough

to matter when I’m gone.

I never let them feel alone.

I tilt toward them,

stretch into golden jokes,

wrap my arms around the outcast

because I know

what it feels like

to be the one

no one notices missing.

And yet—

when it’s me,

when I vanish—

the silence is deafening

only to me.

So I pretend.

Sharp edges hidden under shine.

Crisp voice. Confident nod.

All performance.

But I bruise

easy.

A glance too cold,

a laugh I wasn’t part of,

and suddenly I’m pulp and ache

under this rind of composure.

I don’t speak it.

I swallow it whole.

Bitter. Bright. Fermented rage

I call "being chill."

I say I like being on my own,

that I’m independent,

that I don’t need anyone—

but it's just loneliness

with a kick.

A strong aftertaste

that stings the tongue

long after I’ve gone quiet.

You taste me

when you don't see me.

But only then.

Only then.