I'm a cracked egg shivering on a skillet at medium heat.
My whites are cooked and hardened, while my yolk still quivers - an anxious, a restless quiver.
But I can't move no matter how much I wriggle.
The weight of my solidified white is holding me down despite how violently my sunshine yellow center jiggles toward freedom.
My yolk holds tight this nervous energy, this angst to move, to run, to leap - desperately trying.
I need a spatula.
A human-size spatula to scrape me out from under my own edges,
to shimmy under me and turn me over to once again