Xanthous

A strong, but brittle shell breaks to pieces,
And out, is poured the runny, yellow yolk,
Add in some dark matter, and some cheeses,
Turn on the fan, to catch the choking smoke.
Simmering like that of a tortured blood,
Flipped like a sunny mask, hiding hatred,
Cut with a knife, I'll never be your bud,
Stabbed in the back, I may have lost my lid.
Nothing covered the boiling inside,
Feared I might pop someone with hot oil,
Picking xanthous shards, I near the quayside,
Where I begin emotional toil,
Now unloading dreams, fears, and the damage,
All so that you could improve your image.