people talk about breaking out of the shell like it’s a good thing.

they’re right, i mean. it is. for most people.

and if i had managed to do it right, it would have been for me.

but i think that it wasn’t clean.

i wasn’t tapped on the side of the bowl, and released to be amongst those who were like me.

i was dropped on the counter

cracked, with bits of me trailing behind

i was made slippery. fell from Her hands again and again.

eventually the pieces were too small to get out. i’ve tried. they’ve tried. maybe you’ve tried.

but eggshell floats within me, cutting and tearing and making me unappealing

shards of hate and misery and inadequacy and fear

of emptiness and disconnectedness and dissociation and loneliness

they float within me, dissolving, fusing, becoming one.

i couldn’t have remained solid forever. i wouldn’t have dreamed of it.

i just wish someone could have let me out.

go back to poetry
go back home