on bad days
my body is a block of dried terracotta
a lump of clay rigid beyond moulding
I sit on the black and white tiled floor
my vulnerability is proportional
to the height from which I fall

on good days
my body is a rusty machine
which is to say that even with
all its levers and parts
it struggles when the world
is placed on the shoulders

but the only thing which grinds me to dust
even on days of fireworks and magic
is the weight of crushed dreams
against an orange sunset