i am diet dreams.
subpar version of someone that might never exist,
model made of colours, trauma and ducks.
the sculptors hands are my own this time -
i’ve never worked with clay before.

the potters wheel spins but i spin with it,
never catching up with myself -
i could be beautiful,
if only i could reach.
i take off my apron
and wash the clay off my hands.
oh,
i’ve lost something -
forever!