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Hands that quake

by Grayson McNamara about a year ago in sad poetry
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Rejoice in the details

The static in my head seizes,

a cacophony of chaos wrapped around me,

my mind sprung loose and detached.

The noise gets louder,

screams from long ago break through the newly healed fissures,

seeping past the tall walls I have built,

creeping into my conscious.

The humming of the old lights adds to the wreckage,

making the screams into an unintelligible wave,

rolling over me,

again and again.

My hands grasp my head,

applying pressure,

the chaos dulls a bit.

A loud thud on the floor above lands me back,

she is screaming,

cursing,

spitting.

My hands shake,

I see the wounds reopen,

scars spanning my palms.

The air in my lungs is not enough,

the space is too small,

my body shrinks,

hating the space I fill.

My bones remember the ache,

my eyes see very well in the dark,

my mind remembers the safety I found in hidden corners.

A voice brings me out,

the nightmare shedding its skin,

letting the light shine through.

A gentle touch reassures me,

guiding me to a safe harbor.

I look down at where our hands meet,

mine trembling,

like earthquakes rock its delicate features.

His are steady,

warm,

comforting.

I remember to look at the details of my hands,

the rivets engrained in my skin,

cracks all healed,

none visible to the outside world.

I take a small moment to rejoice in this,

this quiet time,

safe from the yells and curses,

away from the agony my bones used to know.

I glance at my project,

my hands begin to stop shaking.

I hold my project,

feeling the weight of it,

memorizing all the details.

My hands are not the seismic structures they were,

they made something beautiful.

I made something beautiful.

sad poetry

About the author

Grayson McNamara

I am a lover of words. I am a trans man (pronouns he/him) writing about my experience through a fantasy and sometimes real world lens. I express the pain of living with PTSD through poetry and horror stories.

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