Once, I took this art class.
We made ceramic pots.
Glazed it,
Purple and red,
So pretty.
Fired it,
Just a few days,
I’d see my finished work.
I was just so proud,
A beautiful piece.
The day my teacher handed them back,
I held it close to me.
Protected it gently,
So no harm could be done,
And it stayed so lovely.
Then on my way out of school,
I was shoved.
Like most days.
Pushed by an impatient classmate,
Or one with a plain mean spirit.
I felt the pot fly out of my hands.
I heard the vicious crash.
I saw the blood on my hands,
Tasted it in my mouth.
I stood up.
Picked up my things.
And stood looking at that broken pot.
What’s the point of loving?
What’s the point of pride?
It always ends in destruction.
Every single time.
I hardened myself,
As I always do.
Continued on my way.
No use crying over a broken pot.
A broken heart.
A wasted day.