It’s consuming me, the amount of restraint required to hold onto the integrity of my pieces.

Staying put with the illusion of safety, letting the elements take the blame for me fading away. Or to face the days accepting that my edges have lost their shape because everything that cradles the ego is the first thing effort takes.

Nothing will fit quite the same; I pay it, the currency of time well spent.

Because the hands that find shelter in my structure and softness in my colors will not hesitate to hold all of my forms.