I’m putty in your hands;
you push down
so I become smaller.
And I’m changing shapes to fit
the pressure you place upon me.
You control me with your touch,
but you just crumple me up
and mash me back into the jar.
Inside the jar, I wait for you,
but the air circulates around,
and I become more rough,
So when you come back for me,
I’m less flexible, less dependent.
I don’t move the way you want ,
as easily as I used to be able to.
So I’m forced back into the jar,
because of your frustration,
where I wait around some more,
and harden until I’m solid,
never to be touched again.