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.
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Wonderful storytelling in your own Brimblings! I love reading between your lines. Definitely one of your best for me. Seems personal
Like Rob says, this feels like a very personal poem. It feels so honest and vulnerable making me feel very attached to this poem. I love the idea of breaking shells you use in this poem.