Your calloused, clay-worn, perfectionist’s hands molded a delicate bowl
and when you deemed it ready you fired it in a kiln, not pausing to think
that perhaps kaolinite is happy being dull, and porcelain resents being fragile, and I,
I do not need to be molded into something beautiful or better, and I,
I do not need your potter’s hands to shape me into something you can love.