This is worth 75 points! Locate the metaphors in the text below:
small

white

afraid of heights

whispering

in the cold, dark carton

to the rest of the dozen.

They are ten now.

Any meal is dangerous,

but they fear breakfast most.

They jostle in their compartments

trying for tiny, dark-veined cracks-

not enough to hurt much,

just anything to make them unattractive

to the big hands that reach in

from time to random time.

They tell horror stories

that their mothers,

the chickens,

clucked to them-

merengues,

omelettes,

egg salad sandwiches,

that destroyer of dozens,

the homemade angel food cake.

The door opens.

Light filters into the carton,

"Let it be the milk,"

they pray.

But the carton opens,

a hand reaches in-

once,

twice.

Before they can even jiggle,

they are alone again,

in the cold,

in the dark,

new spaces hollow

where the two were.

Through the heavy door

they hear the sound of the mixer,

deadly blades whirring.

They huddle,

the eight,

in the cold,

in the dark,

and wait.