if only my body was made of clay
flesh yielding to the pressure
my hands aren't the ones you would
write songs about
no soft delicate palms or charmingly
round calluses
so i would have my edges smoothed with slurry
i would glaze my irises with dizzying color
as my eyes don't have oceans to sink into
or a forest full of tender green wavering ferns
my hair isn't in the perfect curls you would
talk about for
far too long with your friend on facetime
so i would carve lines into myself
shape what i want to see
scrape away the excess
define
muscles
bone
a figure rounded by the pottery wheel
a roman god sculpted by michelangelo
if only my body would be the one you trace the outline of
in the morning glow
YOU ARE READING
metamorphosis
Poetrya collection of poetry written during quarantine, the tumultuous 2020 school year, and the entering into a post-covid world. randomly updated.
