I want to bite my skin,

to taste the thick copper in my mouth,

to let it drip from my lips like a warning.

I want the blood to drown me,

to soften myself,

to turn my body to clay.

I want to reshape the putty,

to work out the flaws,

to make something worth the time.

I want to step into the kiln myself,

soft and bloody,

and feel the fire sear my body.

I want to be different when the flames die,

maybe something with some beauty,

or something with some direction,

or maybe something that won’t bleed so easily.