fresh, biting stings

in the beginning, this was my mind: a grey slab of clay. it spun smoothly; the surface immaculate. in my first years of life, this is what happened: complete wonderment. molding the clay, forming impressions and bumps; shining, embossed as the clock ticked on, the slab morphed accordingly: scratches and pits and dents. made by failed goals and sleeping while being awake; patterns like those made by seismographs. the biggest molder of all, are these handful of letters: what are tears and loss compared to words and language. they turn this battered mold into a vessel vibrating with life; i leave a relic in my wake.