I hold the heaviness
of the bag filled with all of us,
curved giants. Imperfectly sculpted

by everyone else. I am
a petal on the tulip in his
paradise, cut and snipped

to perfect fit. and then
there is more. My bumpy edged nose
leading from head to fingers

my pinched skin whiter than the singing
girl, pouncing off the pages of the
story book


She used to read it when I was sad.

Now, he slams doors on my sharp angles
I once was seen, now
I'm molded. Examined and

taped in place
Sweets were never good
still, they were stuffed through my lungs till I was one

Now,we blame together
I take it well

Shut the book, turn off the wheel, let the clay collapse
It's okay