as an egg. My shell
is cracked. My insides
puddle on the floor. I'm a

sticky mess of goo with
a hollow shell, and bits of
pieces trying to hold on,

but flaking off. If I fell into
strong hands I'd dress up
as an omelet or a quiche

Lorraine, not a beaten coagulated
heap of pain, leaving my stain
on the planks of wood. If I was

fertilized I'd have the azure
sky as a canvas. And float among
the dancing clouds. If I was held warm

in a downy nest till I grew a pair
of wings, I'd fly off into the sunset
and have an early spring.