I make ideas, not work

Work.
Wreck.
the other ceramicists haven't seen you around
 and you know it's because I can't be seen, don't you?

I make work (wreck) about what I know (I don't know anything), but what I know is this dark purple place where I sit and watch a flickering static box and hope I somehow feel better. 

Do you want to know the two best things I've ever made?
 It's a painting, and I don't even paint, and it's a body curled over itself, folded like bread dough or wedged clay, and the figure is the dark purple place color and it's stuck in this brittle red world. The body is dripping and holding itself in pain and it sounds like that broken glass gasp of someone who had their heart broken for the second time in a year.
 I made the decision never to speak to you again.

My most recent work(wreck) was because I thought I meant lust. I didn't. I meant discomfort in my own skin to the point where I don't understand why you would touch me and if you did, why I'm not crumbling off in flakes of dry itchy skin like sand in your hands. I meant the fact that I actually stare at myself in the mirror, begging my reflection to actually look like me. She doesn't.
God.
My reflection is this dead thing. This... doll. If I look hard enough, I can see my blood boiling under my translucent skin, and I can see when the fat congeals in my thighs and were there isn't hair, I can see it pushing like black under the surface. I can see my kidneys like rocks, sinking slowly in my belly.
I didn't mean lust, I mean the degeneration of a relationship with my body. And what would that even look like?

it's like you have a new aesthetic every two seconds
there's nothing on your work station

How do you put anxiety into work(wreck)? You do the same thing, over and over and over. What would it be about? That dark purple place.
And I can't do that. So I clean.
Laundry, dishes, my roommate's dishes, the kitchen, the yard, my work(wreck) space, my work(wreck) space, my work(wreck) space.
And it all has to change every two seconds because it's all drenched in purple and my mind is running from itself over and over, and there's nothing left to do but clean, slowly.