“Tell us about a time you broke something?” The prompt dared me, “Tell us about a time you made something with your hands.” What if, they’re one and the same?

The day I first saw you, I knew I’d love you.
You had eyes as wide as saucers, and you looked out
from that thick white turtle neck sweater
like you were afraid to love.
You were right to be afraid.
The world was going to take away everything
you held dear–
by the time you were 9.

The first time I saw myself, I was squinting at the sun.
Dressed up for a party. Overly fancy stiff blue dress, overly starched collar.
A birthday party for a girl I didn’t like.
My grandfather asked me to sit out back, smile for the camera.
I knew I was supposed to try to make them happy.

Once, I tried to learn to throw pottery.  It’s harder than it looks,
getting it balanced on the wheel, centered,
so your vase, or mug, or bowl doesn’t come out
lopsided.
Lopsided things are not greatly appreciated.

The first time we had sex, I was so nervous, I didn’t know what to do.
It was awkward and embarrassing. “Relax,” you said,
“We’ll find our rhythm.” And at some point, we did.

But now, even that, is broken.
That thing that I made
with the wide-eyed boy.
Broken.

The little girl’s face, my face is riddled with lines,
crevices. All of the expectations
and times that she tried to please.
Broken.

And: Where are you tonight? Slowly committing suicide
by self-negligence? Where is the man who taught me
that I am worthy? Deserving of love?
Broken.

I cannot fix you with my hands.
I cannot center the clay,
wet with anticipation. Spinning slowly on the wheel.