Wanting to disappear and needing to be seen, both at once. like a raw nerve exposed to air, but you still hold it out, wait for someone to touch it. i guess that's why i'm here, typing, even though it makes my teeth ache to admit any of this. not sure why i'm putting this here. Firing a pot and praying it survives the kiln. A small death every single time, and a small miracle when it comes out whole. Maybe that's the whole damn thing, the wanting and the fearing, braided tight.