My lemon like me is broken up

I sliced the lemon, placed one half in the cusp of the lemon squeezer and forced down the handle.

I heard the little pips burst, and tasted acid at the back of my throat. Looking into the bowl, I watched yellow liquid squirm as it met the ceramic surface. I swallowed.

Lifting the handle, i inspected the lemon; its bright skin had now wrinkled and when i touched its face it felt softer, more vulnerable, less stout, as if a little bit of its being had been taken away. However I knew it still lived. There was more of its actuality that i could extract. So i clamped down the handle and pushed. I pushed and forced and pressed and squashed taking up every ounce of my energy, repeatedly, again and again till i heard the faint sound of choking pips, muffled cries and breaking skins…i stopped.

The acid made my eyes tear as i watched its remnants reach my eyelids; the citric fumes reminded me of the ash following a cremation. And that was it. I had taken every bit of its vitality and life, withdrew its being and i had hurt it. I had hurt it until it felt as empty and as dead as i did. I had hurt it till it was as hollow and sore as I was. I had hurt it till it gave up and gave in and gave way. I hurt it like he hurt me and now my lemon too is broken up.



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