Child of a Terracotta Pot. 

Your saliva eats away my lavender loved skin,

Already hurting from the light 

The cloudy drops of sweat

run down the bridge of my nose,

barreling off of my bitter belly. 

It hits the terracotta pot and

My beads become a part of the water that feeds the soil and 

grows my life. 

Fuzzy white residue like my cloudy sweat 

On the outside of the pot.

Terracotta, thick and malleable. 

Shapely. 

Power and openness. 

The perfect substance. 

It grows life, it gives life. It is life. 

The child of a terracotta pot. One that can filter out

The hate in your sweet saliva that collects 

my lavender shield 

And minerals unneeded. 

One that cannot break when being made

But can mold to the shape of your chapped hands. 

Cover them with clay

Let it dry and 

Cover them with dirt. 

So it does not matter if your hateful sweet saliva 

Rolls down my skin 

Collecting lavender and love 

Because it feeds the terracotta

That knows what it needs.

And that is the child of the terracotta pot.