Can’t Make an Omelette

Cracked open and vulnerable,
the tender, oozing goo of me
seeps unimpeded across the floor;
this is the worst — 
and perhaps the only — 
way to learn how truly calcified and fragile
the outsides defending 
my insides have become.
There is no mistaking the wet, brittle sound
of an egg dropping and breaking;
even when it sounds strangely 
like the heavy thud of a grown ass adult 
slipping in the shower.
Shrill with panic, I cry, “Everything is fine!
Just don’t come in here right now!”
Fragments of shell graze my palms
like broken crockery as I try in vain
to contain the mess.
But this wound will not be staunched;
the sadness and fear, the pain, the shame,
they just keep weeping from between my fingers,
falling in undignified rivulets of salt and snot. 
How many times must I put this behind me?
How many times must I 
lay the weeping girl in the mirror to rest
before she leaves me in peace?
I keep breaking and mending and breaking again
and finding that kings and horses 
and men are of no help whatsoever
in my endeavors to be whole.
But beneath the sounds of cracking,
from some neglected corner of my soul,
there is a small, calm voice that reminds me: 
the whole point of eggs
is to be broken.