Pleas of Futility

Eggshells

October 17, 2023 2:17pm - 3:00pm

It's cold to the touch: this snow-like fixture, being packed tightly under my bare feet.

It's soft—smooth, even—and it practically melts beneath me as I attempt not to put my full weight on it. Not to put any weight on it. I'd walk literally anywhere else, except there's nowhere else for me to walk; there's hardly any room for me to breathe.

And now these shells, they crack ever so slowly; fragile. Either finely crushed into powder or embedded as shards into flesh. Perfecting infection.

Blood is slowly drawn, mixing: allowing for access. Accommodating—always accommodating. Allowing for new growth. A chance to dig deeper. A way to keep infecting.

Foolishly, I invite them in. I roll out the red carpet: a token of hospitality for where they offer hostility. A token of appreciation for where they offer discomfort. Thanks, where offered pain.

I walk for your entertainment, for your personal pleasure. On eggshells that I watched you lay down. I walk with purpose, grateful, and free of complaint.

After all, it's my fault they exist.

(Or so, anyway, I'm told)