Clay.

I am not your moulding clay. These oven chains, they burn my wrists, they burn me up inside with a rageous fire that cannot be quelled by temporary splashes of fruitless wine - gone as soon as the wind blows and this fire still remains. I am not your wide-eyed paper doll, blank and white to be filled with strokes of blue and pink and violet hues - I am already twenty-two years painted with scarlet red from every time I heard him raise his voice at you and murky brown every time I was told I was not good enough, not nearly resembling the picture of perfection that this angry, purple-coloured world demands. I am an aquamarine teardrop that rolls down a sorrowed face and trickles down to the corners of a mouth turned down - helpless and desolate and knowing this teardrop needs to be saved by the knuckle of a finger that will wipe it away.