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The Things Which Float to the Top

I am a soup on the stove, blue orange gassed fueled fire heating me up slowly, until 
gradually I start to simmer. The tiny bubbles which disturb the smooth liquid surface are the things I cannot control. They are the tiny irritations in life which can't be avoided. 
The great moments which are needed.
As quickly as they began 
they are lost in the movement of the liquid that is life. 

Tiny bits of chicken from the bottom of the soup surface 
at times 
and bounce off the bottom of the pot. Those are the things I wish to avoid. 
The problems which are so heavy they sink back down to the bottom of the murky soup not to be seen for awhile. They are things like my dad, who deserves to be compared to chicken. And things like my grandma who died without letting me say good-bye.
How selfish of her. 

The heat increases  
and I bubble. 

I am a soup on the stove. 
The blue orange fueled fire has not increased. Only
the heat in the soup has. 
I bubble and boil and these, these are the things 
I can't avoid . They are the things that build and build over time. They are 
the people who disappoint you, the ones who's gaze you can't meet.
I avoid them, because,
they'll see themselves tumbling from the pedestal in the reflection of my eyes, clear
and unblinking.
These are things like people who weren't the friends I thought they were. Friends I trusted my heart to only to have them treat it as badly as the men who put distrust there in the first place.  
It is me, and all the moments of humanity, where things weren't just right, I 
wasn't just right, and I tumble and fall ungracefully in front of the world. And the world?
Well it doesn't turn away but 
only stands there to watch. 
They are him and those moments I am so afraid to be happy I can't breath. Even when I only see the reflection of us in his eyes. 

But, 
they are also all the times there are tears, 
from laughing so hard they are squeezed out the corners of my eyes like the last drops being rung from a towel, because
I can't stop laughing. 
They are the bubbles that join the blanket of boiling soup
that is my life.
Each bubble something
that makes the soup, 
soup.

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