Wax

(This is a poem. I am not very good at poetry. I will be performing at my school's next poetry slam, and after that, I'll put up the slam poems. But not before.)

She was in his hands

But she was not putty

She was not clay.

Instead, melted wax

Dripping, burning

Sticking, flaking

Malleable for moments

Edges quick to harden

And as she cooled

She held the mark

Of every touch

A reshaped recording

Of every ridged fingerprint.