I carry lemons around my neck.
But not by choice.
They sway as I walk
And I lean into them.
If not, the bitterness batters and blinds me,
So it's better to avoid a faceful of citrus.
Yet the lemons will not leave if I do nothing by accommodate.
The acid burns my broken skin
As I judge the weight.
"how stupid it is, that lemons, of all things, constrict me so much," I think to myself.
But the more I lift, the more they swell,
unjustified justifications concentrating inside.
It takes until they thud to the floor
For me to be able to turn to you.
"Can you forgive me?" you ask.
"After some lemonade, perhaps."