I feel like an egg.
I wobble unsteadily into the room.
Do people look at me and try to imagine what my runny yolk must taste like?
Do they habitually skip breakfast?
I am bigger than everyone else.
My waist is wider than my shoulders.
Every glance is an insult.
Every smile is a promise of emotional warfare.
I speak in a whisper that clangs like silverware on china.
My shell caves in when I need to enunciate more than a few words.
I think we all need to be more careful.
I am raw, and my center is full of cholesterol.