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.