the weight behind my eyes, like i haven't slept in weeks and maybe i haven't, not really, just closing them and pretending and when someone asks what i do three answers fight each other, and none of them are potter anymore because the pottery's just sitting there now, the kombucha gone and i'm not even sure i liked it but at least it was something to drink, something to fill the space, and it scares me how easily i can just become something else, put on a new coat of paint and pretend that's me, that this time it will stick but i'm still humming, still feeling it under everything, the vibration that means maybe nothing, maybe everything, and isn't that what being is, just that hum that never stops even when you try to bury it under loud, under a job, under hair dye and kombucha bruises and