Rough-hewn.

Rough-hewn is how I feel.

As if imperfect hands have torn down
my cloying, perfect prison.
Dragged me kicking into the light.
Pursed their lips
now, here's how we're going to make this work
Sheared pieces of me off that didn't fit.
The attempt was made
somewhere in that gumbo of intentions
and cat's eyes in the dark
and soft leanings in towards one another
to sculpt.

But it didn't quite work
the commitment wasn't there
and I was left an unfinished creation
yearning for the embrace of the earth.

Rough-hewn is how I feel.

Proud, though.
Self-sufficient in my incomplete aspects.
Strong in the smooth planes of my body.
Powerful in my resistance to their tools
and chisels.
An engine held in my chest cavity.
Surrounded by rock.
Bellows forth my rage.

I will be good enough for my own purposes.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Till the soil.
Backs bend with honest sweat.
Stone-sheen shines.
Granite.
They attempted to turn me into a cog,
but I am ill-fitting in your arms.

Encourage me to sculpt myself,
or rough-hewn I remain.
Powerful and steady on the earth.