Citrus Words by Olivia Paul (13, Florida)

My trembling hands pick up the phone,
A game of roulette in her tone,
Will her sour grapes distress me?
Or will her sweet nothings caress me?

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Those citrus words, I eat them up.
Like fresh squeezed lemons in a broken cup,
First sweet, then bitter, a toxic mess,
But I crave them daily, nonetheless.

Each encounter’s like an eggshell walk,
But I can’t get enough of her sweet talk,
She’s a siren, luring me ashore,
Yet each saudade sentence makes me want her more,
She’s the thunderstorms to my sunny days,
But I keep returning anyways, 

Her citrus words, such a sour way,
To confess her love through disarray,
A reckless serenade, a conflicted feeling,
Like a good book on a stormy evening,
Perhaps I can withstand the rain,
If I hear your bittersweet voice again.

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