Day 12, My Jell-o Self

I kind of feel like jell-o. A solid figure, by loose definition. It holds its form. You can set things on top of it just fine, like a piece of paper or a spoon. I come in great colors, sometimes a little too flashy. My jell-o-self is often too sweet and other times, sugar-free.

I am easily shaken up. You rattle me around and I’m a wobbly mess that breaks at the sides. I have definite edges and flat faces, but sharp things slide right through me, and I find myself injured and caving around the hole that you left in me. Pointing fingers just makes your hands messy, but forks and knives and shish-ka-bob sticks leave clean trails of mush through my body. You can hold me up to the light and the impurities are easy to see, but usually people will forgive them. What are a few trapped air bubbles?

Sometimes I’m that green jell-o that they serve at Luby’s cafe. A horrible shade of green, jealous of the people and the love that I sit here watching go by. I’m in squares, cubes, all divided and stuck all over the place in this round cup that was never supposed to be for cubed jell-o. I’m lemon-lime flavored and a little bit of me, in this particular state, will make you pucker up with a sour face. The blue jell-o gets all of the attention, maybe because people can relate to an honest sadness.