Some walk with their hands over their eyes,
Blind to the world around them.
They see no color but rose through their rose glasses in the sun.
Some walk with their hands over their ears,
They don’t hear the slurs from the niggers against the spix turning on each other.
They don’t hear the cries of those who faded away until they were nothing but an empty shell with no hope and nowhere to go and die out with nothing to leave behind but a glass liquor bottle shattered on the floor.
But me?
I keep my hands over my mouth. 

I was not born with muffled cries when the doctors held me up.
I did not inherit my aching arms from holding them up to my mouth.
They were placed there over the years, time after time, the verbal abuse and the fear of the physical. I use to cry, my tears rolling under my palm and salting my cheek.
I use to place my hands there willingly so I would never be judged, never be hurt.

But I’ve been hurt and my hands kept me from telling.
I’ve been hurt and I’ve told no one because my hands are plastered over my mouth.
It’s been months since I’ve removed them long enough to tell people about a pain I’ve endured.
Now I will whisper from between my fingertips to speak.

Or should I just place my hands on my lips,
Smile,
And speak no evil?