Free Verse
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?
By Imola Tóth5 months ago in Poets
