You smell like oranges and hot skin.
You are withered and brown and old and helpless and innocent.
Mewling at the breast of your bastard mother, a country that doesn’t love you.
You are thick and delicious and sweaty.
I expect sweet orange juice and instead taste salt.
I am leaving you behind, riding on your shoulders
or your stubbly face.
I am telling you to go.
Nothing is happening, no welcome home, no birthday party;
no wish granted, I don’t care what you want.
Come to me here where I am sleeping,
like a secret, in the night.