Hands

It’s June, and I’m tired already of my own hands.

One is feeding me,

while the other violently grabs my throat

until I choke on every bite.

One hand caresses my breasts like tiny nectarines,

the other picks on my wounds with dirty

fingernails, infesting my life with putrid pus.

I cup water in my palms,

but each time I lift it to my chapped lips

it pulls away as if plague grinned from my mouth.

Everything I want is at arm's length,

teasing me like a bargainous courtesan,

but my fingers fail to grasp around her thighs.

And I am left to wonder if I’d do better

with hands chopped off, left behind on dusty roads,

like a princess in Andersen’s fairy tale, or

would I, too just wither away?