I'm not your clay doll anymore.
Your palms molded me for years, wounded me. That was my destiny.
Sometimes I grew as your lover, sometimes as your slave. You murdered me.
My pieces scattered on the cold tile for years. In every attempt, you deceived me more.
I lost my tears on the floor. I lost my dreams behind those closed doors.
My father survived as a clay master, and my mom used to be his plaything.
Why should I be free? Why should I be different?

artwork by virtualman209