I want to write a poem about being malleable, so I buy clay. I try to make a sculpture of what it is that I’m feeling and it looks like absolute ****, it isn’t my fault my hands are just too weak to carry the weight of the mixture I tried to make. that you once were. I try again. I lift and I punch and I mold and I kneed and I grab the clay like I’m grabbing the back of your head, your hair in my fist so now it’s grey between my fingers once again and I hit and I switch and I try so hard to make something sturdy
it needs to be cooked to stand up straight. maybe you’re just not there yet.