We Are

Stressed balloons.
Bloated bellies. Deflated directions.
But moderation? HA!
It seems we want to be filled
with immobilizing amounts of flour
and be handled by the moist cracked hands of life.

Push, pull, squeeze a section hard enough
and maybe we’ll see new vibrant colors in ourselves,
colors only seen by He who filled us.

I tell you, these dense powdery insides store secrets.
We are balloons doubling as low grade stress balls—
merely thinning rubber bouncing from peak to peak
in a field of brittle death-black obsidian.

Possessive hands wield skewers all around,
ready to collect the spilt flour from their sisters.
Creating new cakey cracks.
Weakening walls.
Decaying fibers.

We split.