You’re hard when you’re cold, inside of the steel box. It’s there you keep your shape. If I were to open your cage, take you out where there is warmth and fresh air I know you would melt right in my hand. You’d run down the length of my arm, liquid gold spreading like fire, a greasy, waxy paste. Nothing I could hold. Nothing I could shape. But see that’s the beauty of when you let go. You’re not formed.