We Don't Break Down​

Issue 18

We are spinning clay,
slumping upon ourselves --
torn from the earth,
molded by a creator’s rough hands,
reshaped in collapse,
held through strain,
formed by pressure.
 
We sag.
We lift.
We take shape again.
 
The wheel does not rush us.
Each failure leaves a thumbprint.
Each correction stays.
 
Heat seals our story.
The kiln does not forgive.
Flaws set --
every crack a record of what we endure.
 
We leave the flame finished:
imperfect and singular.
Porcelain is permanent.
Until it breaks.
 
We were porcelain.
Fired once.
Now plastic --
poured daily into new molds.
 
Perceived defects softened by injections.
Edges rounded.
Bodies melted,
redefined by scalpel.
 
Faces tuned to symmetry
borrowed from strangers
on glowing screens we hold in the dark,
hoping no one opens the door.
 
Asymmetry meant human.
Now we see error.
We learn to yearn replication
and factory settings.
 
We pay to erase the parts
that make us recognizable
and filter whatever doesn't
fit the silicone mold.
 
Algorithms are lobotomies.
We feed them our faces,
our hunger,
our time.
 
Trading love
for dopamine:
an IV drip
we mistake for fullness.
 
We have become plastic --
we don't break down,
our pieces outlasting
the body that carried them.
 
We trade skin for latex,
but inside we remain flesh.
And flesh feels time.
Flesh rots.
 
When our bodies are laid to rest,
the earth retakes what it can.
Bone.
Hair.
Flesh.
 
But the plastic remains:
intact and unchanged,
waiting to be mistaken
for who we were.

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PETER BRINDLEY is a poet based in Atlanta. He writes about the body, the family, and addiction — the search for meaning in a world that makes that difficult. His work doesn't resolve neatly. His poetry has appeared in Trashlight Press and The Marbled Sigh.

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