Wrote this for my poetry class...under the influence. Hahaha. Please let me know what you think! Jar Widemouthed container. Glass which holds the jam together. Mayonnaise. Fruit. Canning. Canopic. Like the guilt you felt when your mother found your stash, your heart was in a vacuum. Sealed tight, screwed on the vice. Slow and steady. You are a shell without a tortoise. So seemingly unique and admired, your geometric patterns. A light, faded shade of green, important as a forgotten or cracked ornament. Rotten condiments. What to eat? What to eat? Desperate Pinocchio. Your lies are like the red of your whites, your tongue like the desert, and a blunted sword. Humbled as the withered old hands of your parents' mothers, tainted with a crippling guilt and the fumes of the good earth's grime, and never before so unfortunate as the mummy's hollow remains.