the weight behind my eyes, pushing, pushing like they want to spill something that's been building too long. laughed so hard i couldn't breathe and then couldn't stop the crying after, it's not supposed to be that easy to switch, is it, one big feeling blurring into the next like watercolor gone wrong, and now the headache is setting in behind it all like static on a bad radio channel, tuning in and out to the station, to the song. Priya always says i'm a mess but she hugs me tighter when i say things like this and maybe that's the point, maybe it's not about being fixed, maybe it's just about being held while you come apart and go back together again, sloppily, crookedly. Sometimes the kiln cracks the piece open, and you see the flaw you couldn't feel when it was wet clay. But sometimes that crack becomes the strongest part, the place where the light comes in. Maybe it ISN'T about perfect, just about holding the broken edges together with intention.