If I could poke the yolk
of a fried egg,
or sprinkle a pinch of salt
around the albumen,
I would tell him, my skin tastes salty.
Instead, I handed myself to the body,
thick, sticky mucus marks my newfound respect
for two elastic bags
they fondly call lungs
I ask you finally,
will you help me leave my DNA in the world
before they call it a deed
Fizza Abbas is a Freelance Content Writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her works have been published at many platforms including Indiana Voice Journal and Poetry Pacific.
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