The Hand That Lifts

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?

Mouth drying.

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.

"Thanks."

"What are friends for?"

I walk with them, tissue in hand.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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