Clay

It had always been your hobby.  You would knead and roll the modelling clay between your fingers.  You would shape it, building up a beautiful creation - the perfect amount of pressure applied to make it seem natural.  If it didn't shape to your standards, you added temper.  You worked and worked until it was finished. 

Until I was finished. 

But like all your creations, you were never satisfied.  Like all your creations you built me up, and then crushed me.

Nothing but a wad of clay in your hands.

Only to shape me once more, until I was something you were proud of.