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I can't peel my own oranges...yet

By: rogue

Graphics by: Crismhil S. Anselmo

Photo by: Kaizer Zeth R. Cabrera


It’s not that I don’t know how or I’m too lazy for it, but a dozen unpeeled oranges are in my fridge, slowly starting to rot. I can’t even manage to let the water run through my skin, partly because I’ll be reminded again there’s only one toothbrush left in the sink. Pieces are probably missing from the unfinished Lego set I couldn’t continue alone — just lying on mahogany after the tenth step. 


The only thing I could do is cancel the entertainment subscription I’ve been enjoying for the past years, because today marks the third month of inactivity, as I can’t bear to proceed with all these shows ever since she packed her suitcase and left by the door. 


Everything around me has been depleted: the pile of laundry, bags of groceries, and even my bank statement — all except for the space on the other side of my bed. I’d be a liar if I denied that I’m a little delighted with this solitude. On the contrary, it’s always a battle within myself to accept that peace is worth losing the other half of my heart — most importantly, losing the pair of hands that peel my oranges


“The consequences of codependency,” as my friends stated. But I never did and never will regret any of it. I feel no shame in taking down my walls and letting a simple chore become a two-woman job. I’ve grown to learn that being cared for comes partly with being loved — even if it comes with the price of forgetting how to do all of it again on my own. 


I’m nowhere near the progress I’ve been dreaming about for so long. Taking a single step further hasn’t occurred either. Currently, I lack the strength to peel other fruits as well. But someday, oh, someday — may I find the courage to peel my own oranges again. 

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