It's constantly being trapped in skin you detest. It's pork flesh. Dry and coarse to the touch.
You want to use the nearest pocket knife to revel something better for yourself and others.
Maybe a tangible beauty, not just to the sight. Your body craves to taste and savor this beauty.
It's also dealing with the life you can't mold out of clay. Even with the softest dug out clay.
The most delicate hands can't manipulate it. Maybe that's what keeps me incapable because
I can't and I never will.
My lungs ache from each pebble deposit and I know someday they'll sag and tear. But what could
be better than that?
It's all the insecurites that my fingernails scratch at and all the worries my mind runs through.
I lost myself in all the stars upon the dark sheet above. I lost belief, and now I find myself praying it will all end.