Eggshells.

Fear. A simple, one syllable word that I live with everyday. Two absent-minded fools expect me to. They expect me to walk on eggshells. Any normal child can tell you that eggs are a beautiful part of childhood. It sounds strange, but it’s true. Sometimes the strangest of things are the truest of things as well. We grow up eating eggs for breakfast every Sunday morning. We grow up coloring eggs, hiding eggs, and filling them with sweet treats to enjoy, but not all kids get to enjoy them. Not all kids wake up every day to colored eggs. Some wake up to eggshells. Some kids wake up to broken promises and dreams scattered across the surfaces they trace with the souls of their feet. The surfaces I trace with the souls of my feet. The eggs I walk on are white, hollow shells that splinter my heart with each crack. Each crack represents the crumbling pieces of my heart, ceaselessly portrayed on the floor with each cautious step. Breathless they fall. Lifeless I live. Each night I collect the shells, hoping that the pieces of my heart will be picked up as well, but they aren’t. They’re stuck to the livid tiles we graze upon every day, constantly being smeared, destroyed, and walked upon. My blatant heart aches from the steps of hatred, theft, shame, guilt, pity, and jealousy, that are echoing through the footsteps being smeared across the floor. There is no cure. There is no love. There is no heartbeat. Only dead eyes walk on the eggshells now, collecting a broken jar full of pieces of hope.

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