He molded me in his hands, rough and scary
Just the way he wanted me to be

He sat for hours at the pottery wheel
What he didn't see was the real me and how I truely feel

He doesn't care about my perfect imperfections
If I'm not the way he wants me, he sees me as infectious

He molds and molds while I blankly stare
I should leave and my feelings I would spare

*the sensation makes me not care