Some days I feel like misshapen clay
A child’s inept attempt at sculpting a shoddy piece of pottery
I crack in the glaze phase never attain proper consistency
Clearly covered in artisan fingerprints that were poorly masked
I live a lifetime as a bowl, barely holding water
Raising as my own planted seeds who grow too big for me
As trees
I occupy a dusty desktop where I am keeper of an arsenal
Of pens
Enveloped in now-dried pigment from early school art class
One day, I am accidentally elbowed off of the kitchen counter
And fall to the floor
Shatter into fragments
Bits and morsels
Chunks and crumbs
Shards of misshapen clay

 
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