my skin is covered in more prickles
than you can count on a cactus
and a tougher shell than the coconut,
the one your hammer could never splinter.
but my insides are a sort of hollowness,
compartments of air separated by a fractal
fashioned from blown glass,
the etched orbs on trees at christmas,
or lightning struck sand.
when you hurl my shape at the ground
my outsides don’t show a scratch
or a dent from first impressions of the pavement.
but the concavity within is filled
piles of shattered shards
sharp on the edges and
swept neatly to the sides.