Hands

The fact that I have hands 

Alarms me. 

Large rounded fingertips turn

into broad soft fingers which 

blends into soft palm. 

fingers molding themselves onto 

White ivory keys 

making sour melodies intermeshed with

tears of the youth. 

The tops of the fingers dotted and crossed by 

little white lines of 

scars created by an unknown factor, that 

for once, wasn’t me. 

Five finger in a row, 

making mitch matched and crooked stairs. Be careful not to 

Slip  

down from pointer to thumb. 

Strong, twisting fingers, twisting around books, twisting around a phone, twisting around a pair of scissors, 

knotting into the holes, cutting paper, cutting hair, cutting skin. 

Until everything around me turns sour, and

its getting too bright.

The fact that I have hands alarms me.

They can be whatever I want to be;

fighting hands, ripping hands, too much empathy hands.

sour hands, sweet hands, too soft hands.

I do.

Marriage proposal to a life of wanting to bend out of skin.

What's mine isn't mine any more, and

everything I don't want is.

The fact that I have hands alarm me.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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