Hands:
I
am a creator.
My
hands are blades that carve words into wood,
brushes
that splatter color on snow.
I
am a healer.
My
hands are solid, and they are warm, and they are the light
To
take hold of when only darkness fills your grasp,
The
glue that wants to hold together the cracks in your skin.
But
in the seat next to you
They
become alien things and I can't remember
If
I've ever had hands before,
Or
if they go in my pockets or in my lap or...
Eyes:
Windows
to the soul?
Most
seem to want their soul
To
look shuttered, cold. Masked. Hidden.
No
trespassing, stay out.
My
mother always taught me
To
look people in the eye, to find
What
dwells behind. But you.
Your
eyes are so sharp that my gaze glances off.
Too
bright to be looked at directly.
Too
real to fall on a girl who is immaterial.
Too
deep to fall into with any hope of survival.
What
if I want to drown?
Heart:
Excuse
you. How dare you!
That
thing is labeled.
I
wrote my name across it in glitter glue.
And
that scar down the side?
That
happened in high school.
What
makes you think you can just,
I
don't know, swipe
it?
Without
my permission?
And
no,
The
overzealous thrumming it performs whenever you're around
Does
not count as permission.
Even
if I were to give it to you,
Why
should I subject you
To
my awful gift-wrapping skills?
