She’s a broken
egg. Her yolk is
wasted. Her whites
are beaten. She’s treated
as fluff.  If she stayed together. If
she had not separated. She’s a

cotton ball,
used and thrown
away. She takes on whatever
she encounters. It clings to her fibers,
becoming a part
of her. She absorbs it,
loses herself in it. If she wasn’t
used. If she didn’t take on
spilled perfume.