When did these hands
grow so strange —
paper-thin skin
curled in against coldness?

You write another song,
wielding words like knives.
And I was already bleeding
from the thousand cuts.

But take it.
There’s still more.
Take it all, if you want it.
Just please, leave my hands.

You can break me to pieces,
for hard and hungry times.
And but for these stranger’s hands,
the rest is yours.

You can make of it
what you will.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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