Pink Easter Eggs

I’ve been making forever sunburn. Gripping hands let go, slide, weaken and grab again. Hiss of egg. Not molecule by molecule, I’ve got a pair come undone, and I draw them again. Your breath in mine. Membrane against membrane, under spit. Eyelashes graze my cheek, scar, I’ve had a busy afternoon. Somehow soaring, hand invisible to the naked eye. It takes such way a chicken does, but constructing touching skins invading, pink on pink. Soft fingertips, scanning soft pink. Your needing lines in myself, inner wall, then coat that with several layers and again. Whisper, and you of minute tweezers, the ends are so tiny they are whisper, and you breathe. Keep breathing, moving closer but firmly touching. Ragged, take weeks to put together the perfect egg and patterns over hissing skin. And everything is pink. Numb, clean, pink. Long time to create the perfect shell. You first have to build the soft I love my work. What upsets me though, is of delicate harder molecules, brighten their pale colour to a nice blue, or flesh pink. The effort and concentration required is enormous, it can be. I hate my work being misunderstood, especially by those who create. I’ve been ridiculed for it, naturally, accused of spending too much time on pointless projects like this one. I don’t care, I break. The one I’m currently working on will no doubt be smashed back when people can’t understand the egg. They think it is invisible, or a castle made out of a thousand molehills baring angry, red knuckles will surely crush my construction into more than a million smithereens. Smash eggs of their own without even realising. Those eggs are always the prettiest, and the hardest to give up. Perhaps then I will give up egg-making, perhaps I will try something less complicated, like love. Smash into molecules by the first red plastic hammer that walks past it. The first white fist.