I’m not sure what you mean when you mark up the eggs that way…

I’m not sure what you mean when you mark up the eggs that way.

Dark x’s in permanent colored ink, placed right in the middle of the flavored contraption, how odd.

Do I take the risk then, peel the egg half way only to discover

it has not been cooked properly and it had spilled over on the laminate floor?

I know that would create a space of fright over my mistakes, an entry point to point out my lifelong mistakes.

……………………………….

I’m not sure what you mean when you have broken up words

pierce through my insides,

are they truly coming from your forlorn heart,

a hatred that runs so deep,

it has found its crevice from the communists that you fled

in the streets of Poland, nineteen hundred something.

……………………………….

Is this hatred your love?

Is this hatred, your love?

………………………………

You are my sibling and I am proud,

I force myself to be proud,

amidst insults to my face and my dignity about who I really am,

the chalkboard of who I really am.

Emiliya

………………………………

I was never the girl that you wanted,

the woman whose image I failed to achieve,

yet true love never had to hide,

so what remains hidden, in your mind’s eye?

………………………………….

I am at peace in my heart with this failure,

I am finally,

at peace.

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