From the distant shores of the Far East,
The green spiky ball beckons me to return
To the village of pungent aroma
They say the delectable scent arouses,
Inhale, exhale; inhale, exhale.
It is a glutted shrine, a golden treasure,
a fruit of paradise.
The alluring appeal emanates ecstasy; the soft yellow inside promises enchantment
My native Singaporean family bows to its sovereignty like royalty,
But my foreign self rebels against this
King of fruits,
For I am no longer home.

I cannot fathom its richness; it is an
unsavory character to me,
The thorns are intimidating, menacing;
the sight makes me nauseous.
There is no pleasant aura, no aroma,
only a putrid smell,
A whiff chock-full of controversy,
Invading my olfactory senses,
Strong and bold, revolting, rebelling,
unflattering

The buttery custard, creamy pulp inside,
Pungent, moist, pure white pith,
Smells like a rancid, misplaced Easter egg.

My taste buds are in overdrive
Terrorized by the cacophony of odors
My breath is haunted like sated ghosts of
the ancient past.
I am a foreigner in my home country.