He dragged his fingers through his hair, and left furrows along his head.
He pinched and scratched, tugging his flesh like clay.
He broke scabs up, mixing them back in, ignoring how gritty it was making him.
The blood... there was so much blood... and as water on a potter's wheel, it was welcome.
He dug out his bones and broke them to splinters, to better support the delicate structures he wanted.
He pulled himself into the kiln, and hoped he'd done the glaze right this time.
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