I was poured from the well of the sky, where even the rain is pure

Trickling from the bucket, where I froze into the mold I was made to be

Feeling every ounce of me consolidate into the perfect person,

only to meet the sun, and soon, become a melted reminder of what I was expected to be

 

I was mixed from the recipe box in the drawer, where even the silver is spotless

Thrown with love, and a dash of sweet, to be stirred with reality into the pan I was made to be in

Seeing every bit of me form into the delight I was expected to be,

only to meet the bottom of the trash, for not tasting as I was predicted to be

 

I was picked from the garden along the road, where even the weeds smell divine

Swaying in the autumn breeze, where I was pulled from the root into the vase I was meant to be in

Captivated by the overwhelming sensation of death, feeling that I was soon to perish,

only to be watered again from the skies in which I came from, and into what I was expected to be

 

I was carved from the caves in the south, where even the dirt is soft

Engraved with the knives of those who knew who I needed to be

Enclosed by the point of the knife, receiving the piercing into my sides,

only to meet the crumbling rubble of what I was wanted to be carved into

 

and with all this, to be molded,

to be mixed, to be picked, to be carved

So perfectly, so divine, into the one they all could see

When all this time, it wasn't who I wanted to be

-Chloe Aldecoa