the spinning

when the moon peeks its head

out of the curtains to give me

a pitying look as I stare at my

ceiling tacked with plastic stars

that's the kind of time when I

spiral into these mad delusions:

pretend that I could shape myself

out of my own heat-blasted clay

and that fresh from the kiln I

would know the right answer

when you ask me if I like you--

made of strong and durable

well-shaped confidence my

stoneware lips would form

the right shapes...

instead the moon blinks at me

slowly

as I seethe in the flames, nothing

but porcelain mistakes, shattering

against the walls of my skull

I wish that I could be remolded

and not yet displayed to the world

because clearly there's still some

baking to be done;

I'm misshapen

cracked

and confused

and I haven't yet learned how to be

so I spend my days wishing I knew

better, wishing I did better, wishing

I didn't regret my weak-willed

ceramic heart that knows too little

that's when I stare at my ceiling

whispering moonlit dreams and

wondering when the spinning

will end