Hands

 

My hands are weaving through your hair.

My hands say soft.

My hands are pleasure.

My hands are pain.

My hands are the icy shivers you get on your spine while your body is next to mine.

My hands are the black and green bruises she left on your legs.

My hands are the five star he left on my ass.

My hands are clamped onto silky grey sheets.

If my hands could make sounds, they’d be screaming in pain.

 

My hands say muscular.

My hands say fake nails, say big rings, say give me money, please.

My hands say Stress Relief lotion from Bath and Body Works.

My hands say touch, don’t hit.

My hands have become mirrors I’ve had to fix.

My hands are covered in band-aids but you’d never know it.

My hands are the perfect color for them.

          My hands are clenched.

          My hands turned white then go back to red.

My hands have made love to walls.

          My hands have re-plastered and re-painted those walls all in the same day.

          My hands are fierce.

My hands are covered in stolen rings.

My hands are only a couple inches long but they tried to cover up the many inches of my body.

My hands were trying to push him off of me.

My hands are ripping out my hair.

My hands still have burns on them.

My hands still feel the scale of his skin.

My hands still feel pinned down.

My hands still feel tied up.

My hands are gripping tightly to the opposite arm.

My nails are digging into my skin.

My hands are pressing into my temples.

My hands are reaching for ibuprofen- are reaching for advil- are reaching for adderall.

My hands are reaching for bottles.

My hands are holding my best friends hair back.

My hands are soon gripping the side of the toilet.

My hands are aching from gripping the pencil too tightly.

My hands are the tiny turkeys on construction paper that my mother left in a box somewhere.

My hands are cupped around my mouth as I’m screaming my name.

My hands are cupped around my ears as I’m waiting for a response.

My hands are reaching out and waving, my hands say “Pay attention to me. Please pay attention to me.”

My hands are reaching for people I’ve never met.

My hands are reaching for cities I’ve never been to.

My hands are reaching to twist the volume knob in my car, turning it up loud enough that it’s all I can hear.

My hands are pulling me away from everything I’ve ever known but they can’t pull me away fast enough.

My hands are slapping people away.

My hands are tipping back shot glasses. I like to drink until I can no longer hear her voice yelling at me in the back of my head.

My hands are covering my mouth. Please excuse what I say. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of me but somewhere my hands will take the wheel and I will write everything I need, I will write to you and I’ll tell you how I feel.

My hands will one day buy me a plane ticket.

Soon, my hands will write a new story.

This poem is about: 
Me

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