The paper’s edge
through skin, and it hurts.
Why does a tiny hand cut have the
audacity to hurt so much anyways?
There’s not even blood. Calm yourself.
Time-lapse. That little cut
transforms itself into a gaping wound on the
pointer finger of my right hand. Now
there is blood.
Summoning brethren, an army of
angry red slashes align themselves with
natural creases, or they dig new ones.
Or sometimes it starts as clear little bubbles,
barely seen under the surface of skin but if
punctured or caught in the right way
the bulbous pockets burst and
weep translucent liquid, more disturbing
than the blood. Spreading from
the right pointer finger to the right thumb, to the left thumb, to the top edges of the right palm;
they feel like a disease.
A mixture of grooved red openings,
tiny protruding clear bubbles, and peeling flesh.
One doctor called the eczema
which makes sense because for days
I suffocate my fingers in bandages and
for nights, in gauze.
I strangle my hands as if doing so
would make the cuts and bubbles disappear.
I hate them. Ugly creatures.
Yet my hands create such
Paintings, knitted scarves, swirling wire jewelry, letters.
I make music
with ruined instruments.