Eggshells.

There's blood on the moon. Foreshadowing, you know? I dreamt eggshells lined the floorboards, thick and white and beautiful. I held my breath as I made my way to the kettle. Six years old again, cautiously walking on hard snow, careful not to break the surface. Immaculate and sparkling. I wonder what that means. I woke with limp limbs, tired from the whirling hurricanes thrashing about them all night. My restless skin, my crawling skin. I felt too much when daylight broke. I felt it all. I held my breath. I imagined carefully strolling on a frozen lake, meeting shivering geese for hot breakfast. Drinking from arabesqued novelties. My uneasy heart has been pulsing so fast, drowning in a black lagoon. Relentless thoughts. Relentless and fleeting.
But through it all, the hurricane hearts, the eggshells, the crawling skin, I'm happy. I'm honestly happy. I'm healing, you know? Scars are fading. I'm getting there. I'm progressing. I'm not breathing stale air anymore. I have clean sheets, lavender sheets, and I'm smiling. I like that.