First Draft

Delicate and soft, ready to burst with the slightest poke. Emotions ooze out of a jiggly shell, until yoke consumes my plate. I’m begging for a slice of toast or a chunk of potato to soak up the mess. Something hefty, something that doesn’t break apart so easily.  

I am not fully cooked.

I am runny and loose. Over medium, over hard; their yokes are reliable, stable. Not me. But I have all the time in the world to harden into what I’m supposed to be. 

Something hardy, I pray; someone strong, I say.  

I’m yellow and white goo. My yoke is running, somewhere unprecedented, lonely and uncontained. Free and untamed. I’m running, I’m flowing, I’m nearing the edge. 

Stop.

No one runs forever. 

I am cooking.

Days and months and years in a boiling pot.

The future is unpredictable.

Turn up the heat. 

Soft boiled, hard boiled, I’m solidifying. 

Cooked to perfection. 

I’m done.

Ding!