poached egg by vee venning

Spilling
Spilled and
Spilt

Molten yellow yolk spills on my white, pristine and porcelain plate.
My reflections stares back and me, and
my eyes are crooked,
my nose runny.
It’s a very enticing bite, and I’ll admit that I’m tempted.

It’s speckled with salt and peppeer, which reminds me of my bathroom floor.
That I’ve already written about.
But then I feel redundant and repetitive and suddenly, I feel repulsed too.
I don’t want this egg anymore, but it’s sitting there on the plate and won’t it go to waste?

Only now it looks grotesque, with its golden guts seeping out of its pale and limp skin, dotted with pieces of the bathroom floor that I just barely don’t hate

I wonder if someone will come along and do it for me,
Someone I don’t know and can wonder about,
who will feed my curiosity which keeps me up at night until it spins me pretty lies that lull me to sleep.
I wish that they would, so that I can stop wondering.
and I hope that they will, so that I won’t have to.