the pottery instructor said yesterday that my hands were confident like they already knew the clay and i laughed because my hands don't know ANYTHING my hands shake when i try to pour the kombucha they fumble with the zipper of my jacket they keep reaching for things that aren't there but maybe maybe they remember something from another life maybe they're just tired of being empty the wheel is spinning again and this time i'm not holding my breath not waiting for the shatter the clay moves like water it just moves it just IS this time i don't fight it maybe that's the difference maybe i finally stopped fighting myself maybe that's all it ever was the quiet isn't empty it's just the sound of my own hands finally listening and for the first time everything stops screaming the colors i picked out for glazing feel brighter, somehow.