If you were to,

Per chance,

Forget that an orange is not eaten,

Exactly like an apple,

You would be horrified.

The peel of an orange is his

Security blanket.

His hiding place,

His filter,

To hide his sweet beneath his sour.

Possibly, this orange is

Scared that the banana and the plum

Will not accept his inner slices,  

So he bitterly shells himself.

Sometimes, I am the orange.

However, it does not take much Photoshop,

To peel me.

For I often forget my peel at home.

I am too absent minded to remember such objects.

I don’t wear makeup or fancy clothes.

I’ll talk to you about Track and Field for hours.

I go through geeky obsessions.

You might ask me,

“Who are you, without your filter?”

To which I reply:

“Would you like a slice of my orange?”