Hands

I catch myself staring at the lines on hands. My hands speak to me, like they’re alive on their own and if I were to die, they’d give up last because holding on is what they do best. They clutch. They’ve clutched other wrists and their own wrists in pain. They’ve clutched hair. They’ve clutched death beds. They’ve lovingly held heads, hands, knees, torsos. They’ve bled out onto pillow covers. They’ve commanded movement. They’ve befriended their shadows in the dark. They hide my wearing face. They hold it while it heaves. They twitch when I escape into dreams. They look. They can see. They look into my eyes. They crunch into fists in the depths of my unholy anger. They take beatings from tree barks from my punches. They don’t complain. They feed hungers. They scratch open my chest and help release caged burdens. They channel and give healing and hold back curses. They cut chords for me, they cut through realms before my mind can get there. They’re faster than my head. They know. They know on their own. They shiver before I hear bad news. They know before hand. They shiver before I plummet to the ground. They carry the weight off my head and sway back and forth with it all. They’re my favourite instruments in the realm of expression. They move as I speak. They emote. They hold. They hold me. Often, my hands are not mine… I am theirs.