The bottoms of my feet ache from all of the fragmented eggshells I have ever walked across.
I am not a simple person to love.
There are days when I yearn for the barrenness in my stomach, when old wounds still throb.
Days when I lie in poppy fields, watching the maroon sunset alternate to dark.
The chilled air turns my body blue, makes my lungs freeze within my ribcage.
I can no longer feel the shards of shell in my heels when the breeze pierces through the flesh.
I think this must be how it feels to know that you are dying. Shivering corpse, isolated, and a numbing sensation.
I posess years worth of hunger, years worth of spilled blood.
Howling at the moon I allow my searing tears to singe my cheeks and roll onto the dirt.
I swallow the midnight oil and allow it to light my appetite.
I am adrift, a traveller amongst eggshells.
I will use the oil I have consumed to find my path.
