I want to roll over into arms that understand the strength it takes to wear my armour all day long. I want to be held by arms that appreciate how important it is that, with them, I can cast my armour aside to be warm and open and gentle; completely vulnerable without fear.

As individuals, we all sit at a metaphorical potter’s wheel from the beginning. Our clay is soft and wet to the touch, and it spills in endless motion. It forms new shapes constantly; versions of ourselves that, once finished, can only be shattered into countless sharp, unforgiving shards.