hands called hate, hands called sorrow

hands graze paper

hands graze grass

Those hands leave wakes

with their fleeting grasp

the hands called hate

the palms called sorrow

touch the world

with icy howls

beckoning the blade

with crooked knuckles

laughing at the girl

drowning in troubles.

watching her life

pump out of her wrists

swollen eyes, 

named torn and broken

clutch at trailing tears,

wishing that even

in the face of death

that for once,

they might be brave enough

to face their tormentors

with a chest branded with courage,

shredding life

with slightest touch

and drawing blood

with a crooked finger

beckoning the blade

and driving death

forever closer.