Walking On Eggshells

I have to sweep the floor. 

They are all over the place. 

The minute I walked into the room, there they were. 

Remnants of withholding and crumbs of repression scattered in strategic partnership configurations that represent a form of censorship. 

I go into my bag of tricks and pull out the last drops of cleansing tact and my portable broom and I sweep away. 

This has never been my strong suit. 

I don’t like the sweeping part and the tact fills the room with an aroma that disturbs my personality allergies. 

Immediately I feel the discomfort that comes when I take on a role that doesn’t suit me well. 

On my sleeve full of hearts I reveal what is going on as I traverse the room and pick them up. 

My face reveals an even more honest reflection of how I feel, the warts of hypocrisy lining my smile like a bad cold sore. 

I move carefully and occasionally hear the crunch under my feet as a misstep leads me to go rogue in my disciplined approach to the room. 

I just don’t do this well. I never have and I don’t think I ever will. 

At my age, this is something I should have mastered already but when I meet the fence of dense, I rarely cross it. 

And, when it comes to this I choose to welcome the density that my stubborn brain and apathetic neuromuscular coordination refuse to embrace. 

I guess my sweeping inability and my flawed dance through this debris is a choice. 

It is deliberate and calculated. 

I choose to never walk, unless I am absolutely forced to…

…on eggshells. 

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