The Ambivalent Yolk

Back to the chair. My nest. I'm not an empty shell. I'm still pecking my way out from the inside of this faulty uterus. Silhouette burned into the screen. Fingerprints staining every letter. And the coffee. So much coffee there is to drink before I can rest.

Don't make me whole. Never even think it. Just love the pieces.

With the steady hands that brag of men. And the quaking ego of a child. Thoughtless in both act and presence. Every word wears corduroy pants. I hear it coming too long before it arrives.

Until we agree on our nothings.

And I gather the shards to begin again pasting my shell back together.

Like I never broke out of it. Or ever wanted to.