I am a little clay pot, born at the hand of some silent elementary schooler.
There's three pottery techniques you first learn—pinching, coiling, slab building. I'm a classic elementary school pot; coiled like a goddamn garden hose. An old garden hose, one the dog got to.
I, half-glazed bowl, leak all over, holy and hoarded. The silent elementary schooler (my God) forgets me each time our eyes lock. I live on his desk, his mother's dresser, his dining room table, kitchen counter. Why does he keep me? he asks himself. (I would never ask myself that—I ask how long I have left). I was never any good, why can't he throw me out? I'm full of holes. Put flowers in me, fill me with fresh water. They die while I ooze.
His holding on to me is worse.
The elementary school is a relic, and so am I, full of gaps and impracticalities. But still I leak on his kitchen counter and let flowers die.