I’m afraid of nothing, remember?

Trigger Warning - This post contains themes of anger and abuse. All this wrath pent up in my fists and concentrated between my eyebrows knock out the essence of my gentle femininity and coerce the trails of my being with textures of sandpaper. Yet, my woman-ness prevails in glimpses and deserved appearances while the rest...

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...