Blended

I'm dried-out Alton Brown ground beef.
A congealed mass of chuck this and loin that,
kosher salt and pork fat.

Why? How?
What blended me up?
What's the goal?
Am I the sacrificial foal?
The ungodly hole?
The warning shoal?
The ungodly whole?
The hearth's coal?
The potter's unmade bowl?
Cause I sure do feel young, empty, shallow, legion, brittle, and lumpy.

Was it the depressed child, too young to have a sense of self to lose? Or the middle-class public education that tried so hard to convince me that I was special, just like everyone else? Or the church rooms and classrooms that taught me to treat everyone equally and well because they were just as valuable as me, and if I could do that then I'd be better? Or the society that emblazoned successful people into my eyes, people who by themselves would make an average person but together form the person, just enough that when I look in the mirror or memory bank I can see their mutant superimposed over myself making all the right decisions and comebacks while looking good?

I walk home in flip-flops and a hoodie. Sleet soaked my socks through the hole in my sneakers, guaranteed to make a kid run faster and jump higher. I prefer cold feet to wet ones, so I'm stuck with the annoying sound of one hand clapping beneath me.
I want to hang my head down to avoid accidentally catching the eye of someone I know and become further embarrassed. I want to raise my head up of to make sure I don't walk into anything and become further embarrassed. My indecision embarrasses me.

But I make it home. I always do. Sometimes I wish I didn't, so I'd have to change.