Raw clay pressed tightly into my fist,
Softness of body crushes into tight and twisted spikes
The volume of its mass the very proof of need
The space it occupies proof of the clenching force driven Into it
If I held it tighter would it disappear?
If I held it tighter would I disappear?
.
Pressing soft fingers into the tender flesh-like softness of clay
As malleable as my heart
Warm wet weight flat on my palm
It hardens when neglected too long