There was a time when you knew me

soft skinned, fresh and giving.

My clay body

still pure, untouched by flame,

eager to be shaped,

ready to hold your fingerprints

like meaning.

Before the weather turned in my bones,

before my laughter learned to lie.

I held out hands like open fields

you came with fire—

not warmth—

but a kiln.

You called it love

as you doused me in flames

watched my softness burn into form.

I became a vessel of sorrow,

polished with your indifference,

Hollow on the inside.

An empty, breakable shell.