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secret door

A fracture in the egg’s shell allowed the white to push out as it boiled. A look and I think, “This is my brain today.” My head is a pressure cooker trying to seal off it’s own leak. Really, that’s my brain every day. I chew my fingernails down to the quick, blue polish and all. My fingers are stubby and ugly. I hold the egg in one palm, trying to match the fracture with my life line, but hot water spills from the shell before I can. It burns.

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