Good Intentions

feeling like
this moldy lemon 
in my kitchen 
decomposing when I was only
waiting for the right time
in my efforts not to waste it
I didn't even get to taste it
ruminating in a guilty conscience knowing
I could've used it to preserve 
something else
makes me wonder 
what of me
in me 
am I saving for later?
what happens to the unused
fruit of my labor?
maybe this is the discomfort I feel 
rotting potential seeping through my skin and it's
teal