bare humiliation blooms
and then I remember in my daze:
"It's not about you"
forgiveness swoops in
gallantly sweeping horrors aside
the well marked broken eggshells
you carelessly trod on.
those and spilt milk
I still cry over it, though:
and then I pick up the eggshells.
I glue them together
for witches to make boats of
in which they will endeavour
to sink my ship some other day.