I am not good at science, but I am good at feelings.
And feelings are words expressed thinly
and words are another thing I like to think I am good at.
So, when I miss aspects of myself I doubt to ever get back;
I write about how my hands are an afterthought
that’s connected to this body which is
also an afterthought, but somehow,
the hands are an entirely different thing.
I write that these hands cherish each sensation,
the texture and warmth of everything
I touch; the keys of a computer, the strands of my own hair,
the soft skin of boys who know exactly what to say, and just when to say
them. I write that
I have fallen in love with each finger, and all different times,
because they hesitated. At an act that nearly took away
my own ability to feel at all.
Because with these hands I scarred, and scratched and sliced
And pulled at dressing gown ties, throat tight and struggling.
But these hands forgave, and forgive they will.
Because there’s a certain high in self destruction,
a certain craving for feeling left that can almost be substituted for love. But-
Darling, I write with these hands because I am sick of folding,
of belittling each word solely because they mean nothing
more than air filled space,
because you know what?
They mean something.
I mean something.
Despite my awkward smiles, my iridescent laughter,
and that little ink splatter shaped birthmark on the back of my
yeah, the one left unknown of for almost 16 years are
not a grouping of abstract matter.
They are me.
With my pale paper skin and red rosy cheeks, me with my
blonde curly hair and always showing that I care.
Me, with the moles behind my ear and all the stories behind them,
me, with the skin touched tender and a shadow following me
because I am a being worth being sought after.
And I am not to be hidden.