you bask in bruised beige nostalgia like amniotic fluid and she takes you in her pretty calloused eaten away eaten-at hands and shapes you like the good worksman she is
she squeezes all good sense out of you, it drips out of your raw body from the muddy crevices and fallacies of your unfinished skin, she knocks some joy and some sin into you with each tap of her fingers.
and you almost take a final shape, you're almost complete when she tosses you back in the scraps and, once more, ignores your flesh back into nothing.
