My mood is sour.
It leaks from me, as if I were a walking lemon.
When my loved ones kiss me, their lips pucker tight.
If you pressed me too hard, I’d probably rupture with acidic outbursts.
I’ve searched my mind for sugary thoughts, except my rations are not enough.
There will not be any lemonade today, but all is not lost though.
I will zest away the bitter rind, and squeeze out the tartness inside.
Then one day, maybe not today, I will make pie.