Eggshells

dignity implodes

bare humiliation blooms

and then I remember in my daze:

"It's not about you"

forgiveness swoops in

gallantly sweeping horrors aside

leaving only 

the well marked broken eggshells

you carelessly trod on.

those and spilt milk

I still cry over it, though:

the milk.

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.