something to busy my idle hands

it was never a choice to be born into a world unprepared for me

a world too violent, too aggressive

me, a minority among minorities

born in the wrong time, in the wrong place, in the wrong world

my mind too fragile and my thoughts too intense

but my hands always served to protect me

these same hands had pushed away so many with the potential to hurt me

they had shielded me from everything i had a potential to fear

rough, calloused, war-torn

scarred yet proud of their less than elegant job

the only non-delicate thing about me

was the way my hands never recognized their own strength

and would snap in half anything that got too close


and then she appeared

she didnt rhyme the way i thought she always had to

her curves were magnetic; jagged and twisting

her similes and her metaphors

felt like a language i had been born to speak

yet never had a chance to let roll off my tongue

like everything else was harsh tin against the soft contours of my mouth

and she was gold

liquid gold

coating my palate and drowning me in her artistry


i stuck with her because my hands were drawn to her

they wanted nothing more than to recreate her in infinite combinations

they no longer wanted to hold my head during a 3 AM panic attack 

or pick at my skin out of anxiety until i bled

they wanted to stop turning against me out of blatant self-loathing

they wanted to forget what it was like to count my insecurities

or press against my chest when i couldnt bring myself to take another breath

they wanted to forget all the work they had done

forcing me to stay alive 

in moments where i would have rather drowned in the sun

they couldnt bear to face themselves and what they had done

remembering what it felt like to hold the only person i had ever loved

and letting them slip right through my harsh, calloused fingertips


my hands no longer wanted to linger in dangerous places

the same hands that had once written a million broken "good byes" to protect me

wanted to pen a cheery "hello"

they wanted to try holding a pencil without snapping it in half as was always inevitable with them

they didnt want to cover my ears whenever someone would yell

they wanted to stop protecting my fragile mind

they wanted to stop being a shield and start being a funnel

to release all that they had worked so hard to keep in and keep safe

like a precious pearl

too delicate for the violent undertow of the ocean

my hands now wanted to trace along the slopes of my sweetheart's nose

and eternalize their beauty in words

instead of begging them not to break my heart as my hands kept to themselves

anxiety now translated into inspiration

and what used to be a body's worth of red marks,

a canvas of hatred and anger and pent up fear

was now a notebook, brimming to the borders in spilled ink under her name


in this world, beautiful things have never been particularly kind to me

so it was a decision made with the entirety of my heart and not my head 

to be consumed with something as beautiful as she was

i found poetry because my hands have always sought out beautiful things to ruin

and she was the first beautiful thing i could hold without breaking

This poem is about: 


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