Colors

My feelings are water in my cupped hands

Sometimes they drip, slowly, between clenched fingers, desperate to hold on

Sometimes I spread my fingers and let them run,  like watercolor on rough canvas, through the scars on my wrists down to my elbows, 

no matter how long they stay or how quickly they go, they will always leave me,

but I hope, god do I hope, one day I'll be able to hold on