Born into the world, a little clay person. You are lifted and folded and shielded and clothed and washed and fed and touched. Little clay person, under the sun. Under the sun, you harden. Hardened by falling and climbing and teasing and falling again.
Ceramic person, now you glow. Hair tied, teeth shining- they want to make you perfect. Braces and brackets and braids and no more burritos; ceramic child, you are yet to shine.
The braces come off now, and so do the braids. Hair down, teeth white, lips pout. You are glazed, you are shining, you are made for gaze.
Shit. An accidental fall and you crack? No. You peel? No. You break? You are broken now. But those self-help warriors are just around the corner, they call you kintsugi. They appropriate wabi-sabi philosophy to make you feel golden; do you feel like gold?
Up for sale now, you carry wisdom: to excel, to succeed, to leave a mark. They like you, they hire you, they replace your wisdom with promotions. With promotions and money. With promotions and money and time. Time to make more money, chase more promotions.
Tired, you’re on the bus, little vase. Not so little anymore actually, you are rounded at the base and rounded in the middle and petite everywhere else. You’re on the bus.
The bus halts. You feel a hand. You feel another hand. Then it’s a leg. Then another leg. Then something that is above the leg- eyes.
Eyes telling you to stop, to settle. Eyes telling you you’re meat. Eyes telling you that flat is the new round, rounded vase.
One pair of eyes follows you by the way. They know where you go to drink, where you go to eat, where you go to sleep. You notice these eyes and the gold holding your fragmented atoms a whole let go. You’re falling apart now, no more a vase, just debris. A single tear and you try to fight.
He calls you princess, he says, “you’re mine”.