Breakfast

I cracked the eggs and made the griddle hot

I threw the shells on the floor.

They’re fragile, you know. And they break
upon impact with hard surfaces,
              or hands, like my hands,
imaginary on your imaginary throat.

I once dared a man to swallow a boiled egg whole
and it lodged in his throat.

But he always fucked around, so instead of helping him
              I laughed.
              He lived.
But not without knowing I almost let him die.

The broken shells on the floor punctured my foot and drew blood.
About blood: there is always more.

And when the wounds healed and closed, the shells remained embedded in my skin
and pained me when I walked.
I asked myself- who was imprisoning whom?


10.2017