That which isn't flint is tender (poetry)

Some venn diagrams are
    converging.
Their propensity is inward.
Eggs, possibly planets,
colliding, but merging
seamlessly
without changing
their structural integrity.

Some others are
              separating.
Pushing outwards,
kicking sideways
for the surface.
Completing their mitosis.
Existing furiously,
or at least in paradox.
(This one best describes her, but)

Some of them
rise
or float.
Build their way up,
but not out.
These ones are lucky.
They need not attentions,
nor affections.
They have their own eyes,
and the one thing
they can see.
It is all they need.

And some are better left collapsing.
Parachuting softly
to ruins
left in her wake.
(This one describes the rest of us)
Dangling and dripping, we sag
wet of shame.
Remarkably
low.