But the twitch doesn't come and too many placental fruits wilt on the vine. Try not to think of chickens, or sons or daughters. Every morning 'EGGS'. A lifetime of poached, fried, scrambled, boiled. Swallowed whole sometimes, shell in tact, in the hope one of them will settle in a womb shaped like an egg cup.
Body feels too much like a battery egg farm sterile, cruel an tasteless.
Close down the egg factory. No more shredded uterus to flush down the drain. No more walking on foetal husks or niggling at splinters of layer pellets. Amniotic dreams lacerate as viciously as an ice pick cracks a frozen heart. Egg Donor Strips of teeth like white bread.