Breaking Shells

The first shell broke

when I was nine.

Broke into two halves.

One looked like my mother,

the other, my father.


The second shell broke

when I thought I fled the nest.

I left home.

I wasn't an eagle,

I didn't even have flight feathers.


The third shell broke

into a thousand confetti pieces,

as I lay in a rat's nest

shaking. My mind warped

by drugs and loneliness.


The fourth shell broke,

cracked like my cranium.

A bloody yolk clotted my brain.

The absurdity of life,

I almost died.


The fifth shell broke.

Blue plastic bed.

Metal Toilet.

Peephole.

Locked door.


The last shell broke.

I was a bird migrating,

a stranger in a strange land

speaking a stranger's language.

I was who I really am.