The Hand That Lifts
My knees buckle. My fingers tremble in all their joints and fibers.
I back into the corner.
Sweat drips from every precipice my body carries.
The heat is unbearable.
Tears drop-or is it more sweat?
I crouch with my knees in my eye sockets-definitely tears.
It slithers around me as if it were finite, but I know it's an inescapable ether that feigns weakness only to sharpen its knives.
I shut my eyelids, wishing they could close more tightly.
I open my eyes looking for relief-only to find I'm right where I started.
I'm sitting in the dark, thinking of all the loneliness to come.
The independence, a double-bladed sword.
My lack of motivation. My lack of will. My anger when I analyze myself.
I'm not ready.
My eyelids fall.
His and her eyes meet mine, they grin.
They extend their arms down to me, I look them up and down.
I take hold. He hands me a tissue.
"What are friends for?"
I walk with them, tissue in hand.