My hands were always careless.
I don’t know what to do with these people,
These beings who breathe
I’ve always shaped pottery with a shaky touch,
Made mountains and ridges and canyons
Now they make this shape with their mouths,
Air whistles through their lips, forms into an O
These people call me G-O-D.
I’m scared of the responsibility
The faith you put into me as you cry on your knees.
It’s my mistake you’re here
It’s my fault you understand the depths of pain.
I’m scared of these hands,
Scared, for the first time, as I use them to take.