Eton Mess

I’m trying not to tread on eggshells

while the tips of my toes bleed

and I forget

exactly what I’m trying to protect -

your feelings or my feet?

And then I recall

it wasn’t me who balanced all the eggs in one small basket

then smashed them all to smithereens

whilst flashing that sociopathic smile

and suggesting a recipe for pavlova.

It’s a bloody mess.

But I separate the yolks, the sharpened shards

and bind my feet

then use the glair

to stop the gold leaf sticking to my skin

while I fix this guilty heart.