Missing an arm.
Appropriate for now I guess.
I stare at it for a long moment before sinking my hands into a fresh block of clay.
It feels cold and solid beneath my fingertips and I find myself letting out a long, much-needed exhale.
No memories exist in fresh clay, no ghosts, no Jude, especially no Jude, just new creations free of lies, new creations I make with my hands, I can’t count out memories but right now, I can at least rest in the fresh clay. God, maybe I am losing it.
My fingers dig harder into it. The rough shape I've been building caves under the pressure, slumping to one side. I let it.
Perfection is for grades.
Art is allowed to be ugly first and I love that it can be the worst looking slob of dirt on this planet and somehow still turn into something that matters, something beautiful, something dangerous, daring, something that makes you think. It reminds me that when I look in the mirror and all I see are my sins, there’s still something beneath the surface that the universe sees as perfect as if it doesn’t make mistakes. As a sculptor everything has a purpose, I’d like to think humanity does too. And on my darkest days it’s one of the only things that got me through.
I spin the banding wheel and smooth my thumb over the damaged section, adding clay where I took too much away.
I don't know what I'm making yet or where I’m even starting. It’s pure chaos. All I know is that I have something brewing beneath the surface trying to claw its way out and it’s my job to make it happen.
Good enough. Good enough.
The pressure in my temples eases with every scrape of my sculpting tool. Every push. Every carve. Every imperfection.
For once, I'm not thinking about Jude.
Or prison.
Or funerals.
Or lies.
Just clay.
My fingers dig harder as I manipulate it over and over again, it collapses beneath the pressure of what I’m doing.
The clay breaks down beneath the pressure of the clay molding and pushing, I don’t know what I’m doing yet but I know something is brewing and that’s enough. It’s enough that I feel the pressure of my work, and it’s enough that it takes the pain from my temples away.
"Good," I mutter and sigh. “It’s good.” Like I’m talking to the clay itself, maybe in a way I am, since I can’t trust anyone else in this world.
It breaks and breaks beneath my fingertips, yes, right now I want to break something too. It feels right. I don't know how long I work. Ten minutes. An hour. Maybe both.
The world narrows to clay beneath my palms and the rhythm of my breathing. Push, shape, destroy, start over. The irony isn’t lost on me. I spent the last few years keeping to myself, pushing everyone away, not even really going to parties. He was dead so I lived like I was already dead too. I had a single goal a single focus and now it feels useless, like what did I actually accomplish by doing that? I spent seven years grieving a dead boy, blaming myself, barely even allowing myself to do anything with my life, keeping my head down, working my ass off only to be alone in a studio questioning everything, being threatened by some weird list that may or may not know my past sins and thinking about his mouth of all things. I had no business thinking about any part of Jude’s body and yet here I am, doing exactly that.
Why does it matter anyways? The guy hates me. He sees me and sees a reminder of what I did, he sees betrayal. I already have a hard enough time looking in the mirror I can’t imagine what he feels when he sees my face. I’d want to choke me.
So, basically the guy who ruined me for all other guys would never touch me anyways, so I’ve been comparing him to everyone only to actually have him in real life but not really have him. God, I’m losing it.
A laugh escapes.
Sharp.
Humorless.
"Congratulations, Lilah, you’ve singlehandedly ruined your life twice, the second time without even realizing it. At least the first time you knew you were making that choice."
The clay’s cold beneath my fingertips as I shape and shape some more, muscles burn. “You officially broke your heart twice. Really, really, impressive, even for you.” I keep adjusting the small hand and freeze when I hear someone behind me—no I feel them.
“Agreed.”
